Geese at Chatoux-sur-Seine
Car locks zapped
I exit the underground
garage, borrowed mystery
under my arm.
What am I thinking?
Trying not to think.
Not trying
not to think. Not thinking.
Doing laps
in the cool pool of myself.
Suddenly, jet-thrust din.
I crouch then spin
to the smear of green
where the river turns
past the football pitch
and see a flock of geese
clear the brush, bank,
and like a single thing
lift
into the November sky.
At the kitchen dock
a driver offloads
water, shrink-wrapped,
palettes of soda
in desire-red cans. See
those geese? he says.
And together we tip
our heads up—but
no sign of a goose now
to riddle
our allotment of sky.