Indiana Mid-November, Wild Geese
I saw the last flight of wild geese
Winging loosely across the sky.
I crossed Indiana
Late one afternoon and early dusk,
Town by town:
Kendallville, Nappanee, Walkerton, Westville,
While a Bach partita
Cut through the radio’s distant static
With lines pure and cold
And the trucks,
Engines wound up,
Made the long haul along Route 6,
Past the stripped fields
And houses, the stiff boards splintered
By the sleet and sifting winds.
This was Indiana,
Where the wild geese
Beat deep wings over a pale, yellow-gray sky,
Above the crumbling spire
Of an abandoned church, a rusty silo,
With the whole world
The whole world turning around.
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