The snow geese descend,
leaning back, it seems, against the pond,
as they land,
wings out—for drag? For balance?
I never think about flying
in the way creatures with wings do.
The mechanics, I mean. In my dreams,
it seems Sisyphean. To the west,
Manhattan is a vacant, glinting, line of teeth.
No one is in sight
so I pull my mask aside
to smell the brine
of the bay. To the side
of the path, prickly pear
and their withered purple fruit
lay flat to the ground,
waiting out these months
of loneliness. I miss the glossy ibis
who, long done breeding,
have returned to Belize.
But they made way
for the snow geese,
these creatures of fairy tale,
here in the hundreds, filling
the air with horns. I envy them
their flock, their airborne skeins,
the raucous sound that fills their bodies
and this body and the body of West Pond.
All the way home, I hear
their echo. Empty trains pass
overhead and a few lone airplanes;
in the noise I hear thousands of flapping wings.
Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, Gateway National Recreation Area
Emily Hockaday is a Queens-based poet and editor. Her newest chapbook, Beach Vocabulary, is forthcoming from Red Bird Chaps. She is author of Space on Earth (Grey Book Press), Ophelia: A Botanist's Guide (Zoo Cake Press), What We Love & Will Not Give Up (Dancing Girl Press), and Starting a Life (Finishing Line Press). She can be found on the web at www.emilyhockaday.com and @E_Hockaday.
Featured image courtesy the poet.
