I hear wild honking before I see them
Flying low over pointed black pines
When they pass close overhead
I feel air pulsing beneath their wings

They descend past peat and leatherleaf
And plow into cold silver water
Where they call gently into night
Like a congregation after church

Talking among themselves
From the other side of a doorway
I cannot pass through
And I struggle to define yearnings they stir

Other than to say I long to belong
To flock and place
But most of all,

I long for their grace.

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