One morning,
how would you like to be
lifted up
as one of a million
haphazard v's
of northeast-bound geese—
those ordinary but unmissable symbols
of no luck or promise,
innocent but hellbent.
Who could regret
not being born demure
and delicate as a swan
when there is so much ugly
work to be done.
No promised land,
no such thing as heaven,
their days spent leaning
into the weather,
or else bending determined
around another ridiculous
cloud, and shrieking—
one season,
in delirious despair,
the next
in celebration
of the same insignificance
you fought against.
