East of the foothills here in Colorado, spring has sprung, the grass has riz, and the flowers are beginning the blooming season. Back in central Vermont, there's still tons of snow and fears of flooding. Here, there are resident Canada geese, who spend their mornings and evenings during the winter finding the right pond. Familiarly breeds a certain amount of contempt here, especially when I'm trying to avoid goose-droppings while walking. However, in Vermont, I expect that people are keeping their ears cocked for the honking of the migrating geese flying high overhead to Canada, for that corroboration that spring is, indeed, coming. (Southern Hemisphere-ites, please forgive this paean to spring-time during this time of your autumn.)
Several years ago in Vermont, I passed by a particular pond nearly every morning and frequently stopped to take in the birds. One morning a sole Canada goose floated as I watched. This poem came from that morning.
QUIET CANADA
simply floating
chin stripes narrowly reflected
in the still water
vignettes of mist melting in the warm light
the silence broken
with redwing chatter
nest-building in their cat-tail territories
the wooded ridge
reflecting a white throated sparrow's
three-note whistle
peace of the water's rest
caught by the Canada goose
alone on the pond
Open to the love in this world
In peace,
Cherie