Under the Waxing Moon
The Moon is almost...
Sullen skies forewarn the frozen shroud.
Gale November winds sway bare limbed
trees, whistling in chorus with arrows of
Geese straining to steer south.
The familiar sound of the revolving lead
Goose never wavers, but for tonight.
A strange howl emanates from the current
commander, abandoning the customary
bugling, not elongated; like a hound dogs
lament, but crisp & short, a howl.
Alarm bells ring in the memory recall of my
dna...built-in decipher mechanisms fail,
all of this happening in split-seconds.
What prompted this auditory change?
what does this alternate sound signal?
As quick as I heard it this twilight fall
evening, the Geese passed, the course they
were set upon unknown, circumstances
they encountered, not of my world,
the only sure thing,
is wonder.
12/01/17
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