poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

The Music, The Music

         

A wavering formation of Canada geese

row overhead slow compared to a jet

calling to each other ‘close up, close up’

or maybe keeping a pace like a coxswain

in a rowing shell skimming by us out on the lake

we can almost hearing the ragged flap of wings

ragged compared to engine sounds

we have to get past hearing ourselves

in whatever we hear, before the music will come

to gather us, to guide us on a long flight

away from our grounded winter selves

from thought and practice

into air that would not carry us before

we are left hand, it the right

now we are only at home aloft

immigrants wherever we land

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