What if the wild geese
move silently
across the sky,
unnoticed by most behind
the tall maples still green
but soon to burn?

Maybe the call
is not always harsh and exciting
but can be strangely undiscernible,
caught only briefly and by chance
(or was it?)
on an upward glance
as you left the café,
heading home again.

Maybe, sometimes, the soft animal
of your body is not exactly sure
what it loves.

You do not have to be sure.
You, too, can go quietly
on your way.


*This poem is a conversation with Mary Oliver’s beloved (to me and many others) poem, Wild Geese, which you can both read and hear the poet read here.



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