The winter sky is azure glazed,
A bowl wiped clean of cloud smudge by the wind.
It would ping like porcelain.
See the wild geese fly.
They pass in straggling flotillas,
Outward bound to far away and someplace else.
Sleek, like white-hulled racing shells they glide,
Long prows black and needle thin,
Wings like oar blades
Sculling through the liquid air.
Hear them cry the stroke.
One day,
I will not stay behind and watch them
Sail away without me,
Off across the watercolor wash of winter sky
Bound for far away and someplace else.
One day, I will follow after.
But not yet.
Not yet.
Wol's River of Stones 