Wednesday, January 01, 2014


The  geese came down together, 
flying over the tree tops to the 
saltmarsh creeks.

I heard the ancient gutturals of their call,  
the stridency and potency of language without words.  

Each syllable ran as a ripple of sound In the grey twilight air, 
tumbling onto trees and 
spilling into the evening tide.

They fix their feathers for the final glide.
Overhead I hear the hiss of air on wings. 

Three geese in formation. 
A neolithic arrowhead 
arcs across the evening sky,
slicing  through the fading 
tailwind of their calls. 

(c) A McNaught


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