Flocking

I watched a flock with you, by night
yes I’m sure it was night; it was cold
and dark, yes it was dark.
 
Dark like only the dark night and cold
like only the coldest night can be,
but somehow we experienced ecstasy,

when the flock took off; it was not
the woolen sort but instead it was I’m
sure it was, a flock of geese.

At such a time of night which others might
call ungodly and which others still would
find God inhabiting as sure as a hermit
in his elaborately engendered hole,

you’d expect your geese to be sleeping,
though they sleep with one beady eye
open in case the hooded thief might
wander in for a gander.

On this occasion, roused by the crackle
of dancing feet on slipping shale
they gave way, taking flight, hard beaks
aimed at the breaking day.