Geese

I hear the geese on a warm October evening.

Their calls pierce the stillness. I look towards the water and feel their wings flapping above me, pushing through the air, strong bodies cast in golden light.

They fly in a synchronous glide across Lake Miriam, as if they’d always been here, their calls like a murmuring song. 

When we gather in the gazebo to sing in the chilly mornings, we pause and watch the dance of geese on an endless stage: the lake, a kind of looking glass, and the geese, angels incarnate. 

My bedroom has six windows overlooking the lake, capturing seasonal time like a precious frame. I imagine the poets and writers of our past writing by a lake, like this one, witnessing these travelers enough to understand their grace and beauty beyond suburban ponds.

By the beginning of December, the lake has frozen over, and the geese are gone. I feel the emptiness of their departure echoing as I prepare for my own migration south.

Now my eyes are open, looking for what else I have not been curious enough to see.