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
The Dog Star 
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