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John Jacobson


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.

I live in the Catskill Mountains of New York. My writing has appeared in many publications including About Place Journal, Aji Magazine, The Curlew, Intima Journal of Narrative Medicine, Tiny Seed Literary Journal and Remembered Arts Journal. My essays have been nominated for the Best of the Net, a Pushcart Prize and a John Burroughs Nature Essay Award.

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