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 are dark. 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 an irremediable thing. He makes for his car, the office shut down. Now someone passes him. They know each other-- each speaks with mild surprise the other's name, no more. And heads his separate way across the dark.
Extract from Surface Impressions: A Poem by Stephen Sandy. Copyright © 2002 by Stephen Sandy. Reproduced with permission of Louisiana State University Press. All rights reserved.