< Issue 6 >
After the Harvest
by Patricia Goodman
The upper field this morning
is black with feathered heads,
grey backs.
I approach in stealth,
but with a pounding roar
that thrums in my throat,
the geese lift in layers
from the frozen field
into the frigidity,
wing west in loud lines,
shrinking specks
that disappear
into the sodden sky.
They leave behind
a potent pause,
the air empty,
the land locked,
fractured and free
in the same second,
while I stand,
bereft and blessed,
the only human on earth.
After the Harvest
by Patricia Goodman
The upper field this morning
is black with feathered heads,
grey backs.
I approach in stealth,
but with a pounding roar
that thrums in my throat,
the geese lift in layers
from the frozen field
into the frigidity,
wing west in loud lines,
shrinking specks
that disappear
into the sodden sky.
They leave behind
a potent pause,
the air empty,
the land locked,
fractured and free
in the same second,
while I stand,
bereft and blessed,
the only human on earth.
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