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The Persistence of Winter

Winter has stayed on well past its welcome this year.  Old bones need warmth.  Old hearts need to be refreshed by the hopefulness of Spring.  The only bright spot has been the birds.  They sing at the slightest break in the weather.  The first bit of sunshine and they are declaring Spring’s arrival will all their might.

Great flocks of geese spend the Winter months here on the high plains.  They swim in the icy lakes, waddle on the frozen surface, graze the brown, frozen grass, and fill the air with their calls.  All Winter I have watched them as they went about their business; utterly indifferent to the presence of the city and we “Masters of the Earth” who claim to own this land.  Their music has been the background of my hours, even penetrating my bedroom to wake me on a morning now and then.

Soon they’ll be gone back to the farthest North: but they will return next Autumn when the short, northern Summer is at an end.

Questions to a low, dark sky

Where do the old geese go in winter
when the wings that carried them in glorious flight
grow too tired to take to the sky
just one more time?

How their hearts must ache to hear the siren call;
the song that bids them mount the air
and seek that sunny land where joy-filled hours
can still be found.

How do they face the coming snow
knowing they’ll be left behind;
those whose life has been spent
flying from the cold?


2 Responses

  1. Sigg: I really like this. Think it is one of your better poems. Hope all is well, cowgirl sushi

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