The Wild Geese are > Me, < You

More than three months since we saw
the wild geese threaded into the invisible
needle of instinct pulling their long
and mournful strands into divergence

while calculus stitched every long wing
and wingbeat precisely into place in
the turbulent slipstream of every bird
ahead as they faded away to the south.

In less than three months now, the same
equations will embroider them again
onto spring skies. I will see them. I will
hear them as strands part and they descend
into the fields in the same pairs that flew.
Day and night I’ll hear them, remember you.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Art is theft, Biology, Cliches, John MacKenzie, Language, Memory, New poems, Physics, Poem tweets, Poetry, Process, Social Commentary, Sonnet, The Sky, Time, Wild Geese, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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