Dark echelons of wild geese race the wind.
In answer to a mute yet urgent call
They seek a warmer marshland, disciplined
By more than earth. Unerringly in fall,
Germ-knowledged, they rise lazily and climb
In ever widening circles till they reach
The fringe of Heaven; then in pantomime
They form in place--no need for sound or speech.
Give me their pinioned faith, an anadem
Of clouds and stars. A far horizon's height
Is beckoning with circling wings. With them
I spiral upward, know the feel of flight.
How fragile are the chains of earth when I
See wild geese rising, touch October sky.
