The wintry wind has brought the snow; the trees are bare and lost their glow;
absent is the hearkening starling’s song.
The summer’s warmth is high and thin, the summer geese have left, again
the bright and cheery grasp of summer, gone.
I walk along the bubbling stream covered in snow like shaving cream;
the bottom rocks now blackened to my eye.
the sound of swishing in the trees is like a murmur in the breeze
sparrows noisily fighting, passing by.
Along this stream in summer time, I like to sit with rested mind
up against a cottonwood and gaze
far beyond the water’s edge, up the hill and past the hedge
at fields of corn and ripened wheat, ablaze
in the soaking rays of the summer sun; those lazy days stacked full of fun
that make the imagination come alive
like when I saw a fairy, who, blended with the water’s hue
and danced in tune with a beautiful dragonfly.
I stop and reach down for a rock and throw and skip it toward a block
of logs out in the middle of the stream
jammed up high like a superdome built by beavers for a home
as we all await another summer dream.
(third stanza reference to my poem, ‘Cottonwood Stream’ January, 2012)
(fourth stanza reference to my poem, ‘Fairy Jolie’ January, 2012)
© copyright 2013 t. j. gargano
In early spring, they appeared almost every night ’round dusk for nearly a month, to the point that I would sit and wait for them and was disappointed the one evening, they didn’t.
Two Wayward Geese
At dusk they come low….. banking out of the west
‘cross the creek near the barn, where the cattle all rest,
then over the trees just east of the house
looking down in the yard at the cat and the mouse
before turning left and angling north.
They’re hard to see, just two spots in the sky,
but it’s easy to hear their loud, noisy cry
as they angle now west over the highway below
and back o’er the creek….. flying over it low
as they constantly squawk back and forth.
Two wayward geese the flock left behind;
escaped the hunter down in the blind
looking around for a new place to stay
with a whole lot of water and a safe place to play
and be safe from predators all around.
They circle three times, just before dark;
their path is near perfect, nary missing the mark
in precision flying that boggles the mind…
their wings never touching…..in close align
their flight into darkness…..profound.
I wait every night for the beckoning call
of these two wayward geese and their display of gall
that pierces the quietness of the calm prairie night
interrupting all pattern… of what’s in their sight
as they scream in high pitch from above.
I know I will miss’em when all’s said and done
and hope it’s not ended by the sound of a gun
this routine they fly over the creek every day
at dusk when the twilight is fading away
when they slip through the darkness…..in love.
T. J. Gargano