Two geese arc high overhead, calling to each other.
Against the slate sky and dull rooftops slick
with recent rain and now, the beginnings of snow,
their trumpet cries are garish— Like the streak
of cadmium yellow dividing the road down the middle:
the solid line meaning do not pass and the running
stitch meaning yes it is possible to cross
from one lane to the other with care as long
as there is no oncoming traffic. And when the snow
falls and falls in sheets later in the night,
everything will look the same: white sweep of road
leading to and away from the town, the buttery
glow of lights like small beacons in windows.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
