Hard to believe the racket geese make, squabbling,
holding a confab in the dark--pitch dark to him
padding back to check the lights; yes, the windows
But that honking down on the pond, like angry
taxis, stops him: late geese on their way--he thinks--
homeward. But geese are home, wherever. A continent.
Are acting without accomplices; no past
or future to know. That squawky banter is