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Predictable

John Grey

It’s the honk that grabs my attention.
I know that v formation of geese
is crossing the sky but still I look up.
Maybe I’m thinking this is the time,
that the birds just scatter, that they
don’t follow the leader but the one
farthest behind.
The sound and the vision... I’ve been
linking them so long that it’s about time
one of them took leave of the other...
honk for the abstract, for the individual,
for the sheer joy of the unexpected.
But no it’s the same old honk, same old
cock of my head, same old arrangement,
as the geese flying south for winter.
Now winter, that’s different, sometimes it
snows, sometimes it’s twenty below,
and sometimes, there’s Gale, head on
my shoulder, arm around my wait,
pressing the love and warm into me.
But Winter doesn’t honk.
So, those times, I do.

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