I've never heard such gossip.

You fly over the house

in family coteries --

your calls to one another

rasping and full as this blast

of silence you leave behind.

How could I know

you'd complain about front winds

and tail winds and rest stops

between landing strips?

North Carolina says New York's

baited its geese. The hunters

call you theirs and swear about your

absence as you bitch

across the greeny wake of fall,

the unpredictable northern fall.

Your goose beaks dibble and hoe

through the air, routing out

pockets of seed corn

unseeded yet.

The earth is a hunt and peck of color.

Winds rock leaves off trees.

The cold nights brown and crisp

the brightest ones, leaving a litter

of yellow spiced with occasional red.

My beautiful reds! Blown out

over summer's horizon

where geese braze in the glow,

dropping their feathers,

their bills on the ground.