the sky
is just one shade of blue
and it defers to the geese’s greased

bodies, fat with the miracle

of equinoctial certainty— 
each in ascent, wings cutting 
like checkmarks

yes yes yes yes 

that move them 
only forward 
to accept the enduring

welcome of any favored acre:

fairway or town commons or rush-
ringed pond  
calm as the motor lodge pool,

the one they filled in— 

though the sign on the fence
still advises NO DIVING—
still insists I acknowledge 

the personal risk