Skein of Montrose Basin

Flying wedge-like as wool feathers the wind, the geese are leaving the basin. Where do they go? How long till they arrive? Will the plump make stops on the way? At first a few will arise together. Later thousands flock to the sky. Who leads the skein and rides the windy tides to the land of their winter dreams? If I could fly, wings soaring up with them, I’d write poems with my pink feet. And send all my pals a post card: “Wish you were here!”