Farewell Goose
Thirteen geese fly in formation –
sharp, black curves
against a skim milk sky –
over the head of a boy on the ground.
The boy is denim blue against a fading green,
hair so yellow it gleams.
He raises his hands, waves,
calls out to the birds overhead.
But all I hear is the call of geese,
their voices cold, cold, cold,
and flying away.
Kelly Barnhill 