The geese are gone. They gathered
their young ones and off they went,
honking with joy, their strong wings
lifting them in their great V formations,
heading south. But this place
still bears the feel of their presence.
We leave our imprints on all that we touch.
And standing here on the pond’s edge
among the bleached reeds, I smile,
remembering spring’s fuzzy goslings,
marveling at the way they grew
into elegance in a few short months,
much like the swan in the fairy tale.
A crow calls from a tree across the water.
“Hear! Hear!” he says. “Yes,” I whisper to him,
“I do,” as the sound of geese honking
floats silently above the pond.