passing over

passing over
southbound, 

the geese fly 

without an idea of home. 

when the current slows, 

is it still there--

the promised land?

glide

over the mountains, 

anthills from above.

over grey slate, 

over the man-made--

plastic bags drifting,

tumbleweeds

through the alleys.

skim

over the trees, 

felled and fallen.

pinpricks of green

among the grey hairs. 

coast toward 

the blue, 

from the well 

we sip.

steadfast,

we drink, 

rivers slipping 

through fingers. 

and

when the dead of night

creeps over, 

as lichen over rocks, 

we who are

far from the man-made

will at least 

have an idea 

of stars--

imprints of light

swimming in our reflection. 

but for now

we will drink--

the geese who have

never known a word 

for home, 

and 

we who have 

too many words

for nothing, 

we who have

never known darkness.