Over the field where we ran the Shelties
that day, the wild geese came flying down
low, scribbling the October sky with endless V's
and filling the air with their haunting, honking sound.
Wave after wave, they came by-- in the hundreds--while
astonished, we gaped at the wonder of so much
direction, so much life and certainty. Whatever guile
ordered their course, their flying was as sure as touch.
And reminded us of the truth of all journeys,
that love itself has its compass, and when
it hazards the unknown, may think on these.
Even left behind, we cast our eyes after them --
and followed with migratory spirits of our own,
wild with thinking how much is waiting to be known.