I remember the land, its curve, its solitary sky, its fiery rivers, its inability to hold even the faintest rite of even the faintest spring before its time. It is the land I left and only return to in these quiet nights, in this open field, lit by the lights of a small Midwestern city, my city, my adopted home.
On my back, staring at the sky, I heard them. It’s not unusual for geese to still be out after dark, searching for who knows what, going for miles before they decide where to tuck their wings and spend the night. I turned, expecting to have to search for their dark shapes against the night sky. Instead, they glowed. Ghost riders in the sky, as the song says.
Snow geese. I’ve never seen a whole flock before, and here they were, radiant in the reflected lights of my city – they almost seemed lit from within. The truth is, there is a chance they were looking for me. There is a chance they were sent to deliver a message from another poet, one that left without saying goodbye. One that traveled miles before knowing, finally, where to spend the night.
Passing on, they became a wisp of smoke and vanished in the night sky, I understood: You can glow, but it will take these city lights to make it so. You can soar, but you must take the shape of the sky. You can hold the world at bay, but you must stand in awe of her pure, pulsing grace. You can deliver on all your promises – but you must give fair warning as you approach – wings whistling in the January air – low guttural honks at the beginning of night – a soft inner glow that transcends the source, the bounty and the ecstasy of light itself.
I crane my neck to see the immeasurable joy and grief in the mortals below.