Geese Flying Over

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

or experimental.

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.