They don’t come around here anymore,
All that day in gray November
I watched, quiet, by the field, under trees.
They wheeled and called, wings whistled
close enough to reach and touch.
I would have welcomed death that day–
clay and corn, the sound of snow
geese–nothing left to wish for,
nothing more wonderful to see.
Now the trees are gone.
The corn is plowed.
I have grown old with doubt.
The geese don’t come around.
When gods descend,
the very ground is changed,
and when they rise?
The air is empty, nothing
flies white against the clouds.