Poem Language of Geese

Language of the Geese
By © David Dorrell 2007

The last of the blue streaks fade
gray and green hues endure
squares of soft edged orange
and circles of golden
artificial suns shimmer.

The geese begin to talk.
Chattering their secrets, murmuring
the cars are gone.
I can hear, but can't understand
their words.

Smell of moist earth,
damp grass, gray green
leaves of farmer's toil
rustle around me.
The wind speaks
To the geese.

Tube and lens
bounded fires
finitely constant,
mock my glass eyed gaze.
The geese sing to
the star filled sky.

Time is an abstraction
Immortality is real, for now.
the cars are back.
I can't hear, can't understand
Their words.


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