The Geese at Ingham Spring

The winter birds are back their oil-slick wings sent through a vapor like some enormous dream the trees leafless and feathered, too a sky's blue waterwash behind all else bark black or gray: wing gray, pond gray, cloud gray. And here we are wending our way again to some calendar demand, but wanting to stay. Here where no ice can dam this side of the pond mothers and fathers travel together forever. Here, where the spring never fails the steam from a hundred small bird hearts would be a way to warm our hands.

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