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.