It’s the middle of January,
what are you doing here?
I ask this of both myself and the geese
as I rise to the shallows of dreaming
and break the surface.
Oh, right, they’re Canadian.
This is south for them,
and my own reasons are not so simple.
It is a lonesome sound, their squawking,
though not one of them travels alone.
Their voices make a chorus
of notes both crowded and sparse.
Orchestrated, yet in disarray.
I cannot decide if it is classical
I cannot determine
if it is four clarinets and two oboes,
or several windows
being polished by the hands
of six window washers.
One might conclude
they are having a heated argument –
I’ve heard a similar noise
in one of those news clips
of a political debate.
Or maybe one of them told a good joke
just before flying over my neighborhood,
and now they’re sharing a laugh.
This too happens in politics,
though it’s never shown on the news.
Either way, they have moved on
and I sink back down into hibernation,
for the moment nothing more
than a deep-sea creature
that has strayed too close to the surface.