Retreat

Sept 7 2013


They have begun their retreat,
in a slanted line
in the high clear sky
of September.

They slipstream south
along the path of least resistance,
a roughly staggered line
back, and to the side
drafting behind;
a ragged procession of geese
that wavers
but holds.
So sensibly honed
by nature,
riding the front-runner's wake
taking turns.

They are not elegant fliers
and hardly fast.
I can see the effort
in their necks, straining ahead
the urgency of wings.
The long-endurance muscles
of their powerful breasts,
as voracious
as jet engine intakes
sucking up air.

Is there a leader
or do they share,
beating upwind?
And are they kin,
or do they assemble
by some inscrutable signal
only birds discern?
Strangers, brought together by luck
who will quickly disperse
when the trip is done.
Like commuters
who avert their eyes
on the journey home,
tolerate
the unnatural closeness
for now.

I look up
in Indian summer
and wonder at their rush,
when the living is easy
and winter seems theoretical.
But they have sensed the briskness
the dearth of insects,
the early setting
of sun.

In spring, their journey reversed
we will welcome them,
harbingers of warmth.
Big awkward birds
honking raucously, and close to exhaustion
putting down hard.
But now, I am caught off guard.
A stab of melancholy
in bitter-sweet fall.


I was caught off guard today: the first sighting of geese, heading south. It wasn't the classic "V"; more of a slanted line -- ragged, but holding. I like what this -- the strategy of drafting off each other's wig-tips -- says about the razor of evolution: selecting the perfect aerodynamic form by trial and error, by the random culling of chance.

Talk about a challenge. Another "nature" poem about migrating geese? Really, does anyone need that?!! So I hope I managed to inject some originality into this. And sufficient small rewards and unexpected pleasures to make worthwhile the few minutes it takes to read ...and (I hope) re-read.