geese fly over the city, and it is october, and the autumn is here

the geese fly high over the heads of people
and skyscrapers, calling from the first
to the last incessantly, caringly,
so that not one is lost on the journey
over the land and sea.

and i, spellbound, listen
and watch the silvery bellies and the dark wings
and the extended necks, pointing
across the wind, almost south, into
the sun that was young once in the morning,

and will decline, irreversibly,
just like the endless dance of life and death

when the potato fields ate my joy, leaving only
the silence of a soul empty and tired
of all interactions that are, ultimately,
unfair trade between members
of different species, from alternate galaxies.

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