A loose ribbon of birds arrows over the shoreline,
though we hear them before we see them,
the gaggle perfectly synchronized,
heading north.

On our last coastal afternoon for now,
we stop walking, look up to take in
the call and response of geese on the move,
an ordinary sight we see in our part
of the world, too.

Here it borders on the mystical when
combined with wind glancing off waves,
blue all the way to the ruler-straight horizon,
the sun playing hide and seek with
fast-moving clouds.

We watch the bird ribbons curl and uncurl,
configure and refigure, streaming behind
the leader as if from a girl‘s hair as she runs,
arms extended, into this perfect day,

the cares of a crumbling world so far away
they cannot be real—though we know
better. But the peace of here and now
brushes our faces as we head north
on the blufftop trail,

watching the disappearing flock
turn into dashes and dots,
winged Morse code for go,
for fly,
for this way,

and other signals that we,
the earth-bound,
the flightless two-leggeds,
will never comprehend.