242 Geese

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I am, somewhat surprisingly (to me, anyway) beginning a series of poetry-written-when-I-hear-the-geese-throughout-my-day.

I’m awake. It’s 2:42 on Spring morning. Feeling like evening, though. No, more like night. The moon’s fallen, asleep. I’ve been summoned, from deep. The cat is animated. The sky is over-clouded and I embark on a soot-study; seeking stars or forms or somethings. It impenetrably denies my every query. It stoically silences any furtive echo of conversation. I long for the not yet, the far off, the hoped for. A gooseless sky black-blankets me. Please, Sleep take me. The wake hates me.

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