I stay in the Eastern Shore because the geese migrate here.

Year after year, their flying shadows settle my doubts of earlier
wet days of spring, the heat of summer.

As I approach and suffer the assault of high frequency screeches,

my tolerance nearly quits on me.

Excited and riled up by my presence,
they are like potent neon lights focused on my hearing.
Their incessant talk remind me of village markets in foreign places,
constant din of conversations, calling out for goods,
haggling for better prices.

They dance toward each other, retreat, advance

"Hello, how are you, I lost track of you up in Maine. Glad to see you.
There is a PREDATOR there. WATCH OUT!"

My arrival at the shore with the dogs creates

an immediate flurry of movement.
A large v-shape of water in front of us clears.
Noisily explaining our presence,
they split into formal dance troupes.

Ripples shimmer the surface

as I stand there quietly,

the dogs enthralled, and a bit afraid.

The geese begin to regain their distance

and soon, in synchrony,
the gap is bridged.

For hours, we watch their dance,

these armies dressed in brown
and white and black.

Not war like, not at all.

More like assembly lines inside textile factories.
The acrid odor of sizing sprayed on to every bolt
straight on to my teary eyes.

Assembly lines of look alike,

brown and white and black
yarn floating back and forth, in motion on to belts.

Assembled colors in the weaving of the looms,

unending touch of texture in textiles.

Why humans cannot like their steady beauty?

Like deer, geese are a metaphor, a figure of speech
I do not particularly care to be accurate about,
or bother check in the dictionaries and annals of figures of speech.

It is simply that geese, migratory or not,

just like deer,
remind me seriously that we are not getting it together
as maybe we should.

As it stands, we are screwing up this place all to hell.

The geese talk, they exchange views.

All they are doing is meet again.
Get back in touch after a journey four times more difficult,
than any journey either you or I have ever taken,
in a year.

Longer than you and I imagine to travel,

this dimension of life.

The geese have traveled.

They have stories to tell.
They include us in their conversations,
as you and I come near.
They talk to us.

You and I are passerbys,

the accidental tourists.

They, the geese

are the people.