Onstage, from behind
the Laurentian Shield,
and Quebecan void,
abundant of wing and body,
come tuxedo gray geese,
white jaunty Fred Astaire
scarves around necks
black as top hats.
 
They decline low
over the lake, their single
file pattern close as buttons
on a tunic front, choreographed
by a seamstress. A scrutable awe
trails behind them.
 
Dance hall precision,
what comes to us by rote
and to them being what they are,
builds parapets of that awe;
unerring decision
and accuracy in maneuver,
mastery of thermal lift
from an open December
lake hip deep in water,
ankle deep in food.
 
But too quickly these victors
of flight strike upon the very air’s
dominion further south, where
swamps stretch feet under
cypress and yellow pine,
and secret morning mists
are quietly infiltrated
by design and the guarded
odor of gun oil.

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 Other articles by Tom Sheehan:

• Old Quebec Barn at Recall

• Bar Harbor Passage

• Late Night Guitar

• Front Stoop