My family always
calls each other,
twice a year:
“The wild geese are flying!”

“I’ll be right there!”
We grab cups of coffee,
throw on layers,
and brisk walk to the lake.

Ice, black and mottled,
or silver and new,
covers the bays
and inlets,
but, somewhere,
waves are breaking through.
There is open water.

From far away,
carried on cold breezes
which sting our ears
and tear our eyes,
we hear the familiar call.

“HuhUUuh. HuhUUuh.”
We peer out over the lake,
up,
until we see them,
the familiar V
cutting through the wind.

And we laugh,
and jump up and down,
and wave,
and cry.

I’ve wondered why
it stirs us;
why we always
run to see them,
as certainly as they
always
fly.

Do they look for us,
standing on the shore,
waving,
watching,
calling,
crying?

Does the dip of their wings
as they land,
one after the other,
say to us
“Hello, old friends,
ground-bound.
Good to see you.
Thanks for the welcome.
Your clothes never match,
but they make us laugh!
HuuuUHH. HuuuUHH!”

Probably not.

But we can pretend.

Maybe we run
and listen
and search
and watch
because they remind us
of our place.

We join with them
in the great globe,
spinning,
circling,
returning again
and again
and again.

They take away
our winter fears.
Steel us against the
incoming!
cold,
or soar
our spirits
with promise
and hope
and upcoming
warmth.

As long as they fly,
life goes on
as it has,
as it will,
as it should.

We can
and will
continue
to spread our wings,
to fly,
to run,
to call,
to wave,
to cry,
to laugh,
to believe,
to know our place
in things,
as long as there is
the constancy
of wild geese.