Call me when the geese part
the sky, their hundred Vs of
angles and planes a fine tracery
against the cirrus floating past.
Almost too high to hear, be
still and tune into their voices
urging the other ever onward
behind chevron’s leader.
Send your spirit upward and
fasten onto whichever has the
steadiest wingbeat, wave your
arms in unison until your feet
have left the ground and you
catch them, then, somewhere
over the Flint Hills. Join seamlessly,
and honking softly, fly home.