On the hinge of evening, wild geese vee over the gas station,
low enough to see their black throats, to hear the push and rush
of wings. The sun is down, but the light wells under them. Their breasts
shine red and gold. And as we drive on through the blue
and ordinary streets, through the sky lit like yellow silk,
I think of them. Their passing is a sennet of trumpets.
The car fills up with silence, and the world pauses like an orchestra
just as the music starts.
I really lihe this. Are you thinking of doing a collection of poems on the land and the seasons?