What do I know of geese high in the wind?
Only what people have told me.
I have heard them—by clear water, the sky beginning to show
in the thinning leaves.
That soft far calling—what is it most like?
The cries we make at love?
Children a few yards over?
Bodies dividing the night, their small freight of heat.
How much will does each wingbeat take?
Certainty flickering in me
like a needle, I speak my opinion: Adjust, adjust.
If it is music, it is necessary music.
I am pleasantly haunted.
© Jack Butler