By: Anna C. Urquhart
Droves of geese, headed south,
The noise—such hernk-ing!—
builds ‘til I no longer hear
the traffic nor whir of machines.
The sound pulls me to the garden
where I look up, dizzied,
the sky full of undulating “V”s.
(My, there are so many.)
Songbirds in tree boughs
notice the noisy travelers
The robin and chickadee are not geese,
but don’t mind the difference—
They look up, see feather and beak,
and know each other for kin.
The air fills with bird noise—
And it is as it is meant to be
when we encounter those traveling.
We cannot shorten the road, but
our song tells them: I see you
have made it this far.
Such a journey to undertake.
Yes, carry on; better lands await.
Do all the birds along the path call out?
So it seems,
and with such song