augury

a barren field behind your house, a pair of geese gliding past it.

that means we’re migrating, and eventually, arrival.

in the pinholes between the leaves,

there’s still light.

this sauntering silence, this creek of clothes

and best wishes on cardstock. we stopped measuring time

from aubade to noon.

instead, with our heads in the riverbed,

from this ripple,

the way water arrives against the embankment,

from refracted touches and the halation of it all

to stranger night skies.

look at the geese again

now crossing paths. look at the field too,

the wheat has grown a little.