that single goose (poem)

A little late for the equinox, but still a poem that I like. I was reminded by the voice of a lone goose in the valley this morning, as the rivermist began to thin. (Usually there are two, so I guess his mate is nesting.)

Vernal Equinox

Those days of ice and fire have scorched or thawed their way

into temporary absence, along with the blades of wind.

Yesterday a snipe startled from among the woodland margins

and something like hope rekindled itself in the trees.

This morning, at the fulcrum of dark and light, after the night

and its absences, the birdtable wore a corona of bluetits,

and the pied garb of the pair of woodpeckers drew together

an alchemy of night and day, the hint of convergence,

their tails flashing red like passion in the drizzly dawn.

Now this pot of tea by the window; buzzard launching

from the tall ash; single goose heading up the valley

out of the mist, surfing the first wave of light.

© Roselle Angwin (in All the Missing Names of Love)