Goose Story

As I was tramping through my haunting space, on a rainy, winter afternoon,
I came upon an after-autumn harvest place, a field of grey-roofed gloom.
A goose flew over and squawked to me, of missing friends and doom,
Fully five times he circled and spoke to me,
How his friends had left him spinning, around this lonely room.

I spyed him, and I shouted, that he was not to blame.
He was but a couple of hours too early, misoriented by the dark and grey,
And whatever vow was said or left unspoken, his friends had surely not forgotten
The gravity and the glory, the history of his name.

He spun around and queried, forlorn and disconcerted,
That I was not marked in downy feathers, as the colours of his kin,
But that I should have news, he pondered, and soon thought to spin on, and on away.
I could only shake my head and wish him,
On his wondrous winter way,
And smile to see him flying, to the friendship of his later day.

His sorrowed voice was a story enclosed in a winter's day.


--J. Shidler 2013-12-19



True story.