One bright morning
as I cut your hair on the deck
within sight of the ocean
whooshing its way into shore,

I stop, look up at the sound—
not the familiar call of geese,
but the whoosh of hundreds
of wings, dark arrows overhead,
migrating north along the
California coast.

Billions of birds make their way
up the Pacific Flyway each year,
and, unlike whales, which,
though huge, are much better
at hiding,

the geese, arrayed in three
ragged ribbons across a swath
of sky who knows how big,
catch our attention. We listen
for their calls that coordinate
their positions, that help them
navigate the impossible journey

that they, like us, make so often
over the distance of these lives.
And when we hear the ones behind
honk encouragement to the ones
ahead, we remember that they,
like us, take turns leading
and following, coaxing
and praising,

as we fly these long, familiar
routes to the places we
call home.