loud geese have died quietly out my open window. jet black has covered their bodies in pylons and the civilized process that lead hands to hold hands. they look like mistakes, splats. the sky was too heavy, the ground even more so. it had snowed. it is snowing. they are freeze-dried now, as men stand outside, hard hats on their head to protect them from something, talking business like, affirming the tragedy, waiting for the warmth again.
in this winter that remains, that lives like death, i sometimes wonder how you did it. each bit of it, good bad and mundane. how you could sit, at ease, tired, watching to not feel as though you were watched. how you studied to the goal of an unknown, the goal that is known now in the way inevitability leads to another breath. how you found love and lived love and how you came to understand that love was not enough love for love to love.
do geese love? two days ago, i saw they did. spring hugged them in flowers. my pupils kissed their flapping wings. now, they are gone.
a flock remains around somewhere with wilderness in their eyes. the pylons are flopping to their side by the wind. the men do not pick them up, though they hold onto their hats.
i used to understand what was said by the wind, but i guess, that too goes. currently (in all senses of the word), it only sounds like a strangled horn, a useless throat. this may be the pylons moaning the fall, though i suppose that may also be the geese, last words on their bills, and telling a story of love for those who will listen.
i close my window. it is cold.
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