Fall and winter, their calls
signal morning and evening,
their arrowed paths marking the sky,
its blues to grays, clouded or clear,
given meaning by their passing.

They settle in wet fields, winnow
the ravaged crops, clustered
like homeless people in a park,
hunkered in dingy heaps,
ignoring our petty passing.

When the low sun gilds
the furrows, they rise, aiming
like commuters for an exit,
honking, in orderly lines,
signaling, but not passing

the high-heeled deer
hidden in the shadows,
waiting for their turn.


Inspired by a dVerse prompt.

(there are no geese or deer in the photo)

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