At the bridge’s edge
we’re thrown into the river
by long warm shadows.

Geese take their places,
the river, over its banks—
the feel of Sunday.

The geese break their V
into two Vs over us,
wings the only sound.

Floating and honking,
one hundred forty three geese
make everywhere home.

Geese hidden in fog,
these first days of November
on Third Sister Lake.

Fall woods are quiet,
geese congregate on the lake,
chickadees forage.

We hear them coming,
over the red-wing marsh bed,
six geese break their V.