No neat V due south
but a scribble of scattered lines
swishing across the blank grey sky,
spots enigmatic as tea leaves.
Is autumn leaving?
Winter breathing
cold and close?
The geese will not commit.
Then a long, silent pause;
no passengers overhead.
Waiting.
Wondering.
The nothing is
punctuated loudly
by a lone pair of geese
no hurry
no hurry
no hurry
winter is
still
far
away.
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