Migration

When a skein of geese fly overhead
I stop to watch them
I know not where they’ve been
nor where they are going
But for the moment, I see them

They call out in their own language
I listen, though I don’t understand
Perhaps they speak of what they’ve seen
or what they hope to see

Perhaps they’re calling out
to the ones who’ve gone before them
or to the ones who are still behind
Perhaps they’re only making shouts of joy

They fly from my sight in mere moments
And soon I see them no more
But their cries ring out in the distance
So I listen while they can still be heard