The Wild Geese

I think of the wild geese,
And how they call
Out to the sky,
Braving the chill of the dawn,
They fly above the fields, Touching the waters of the lake
Where reeds bend low,
And I remember the answer, And it echoes still.

The aching beauty of their flight,
Every wing a whisper of solitude,
Each one pushing through the mist,
To find sweetness in the simple, The dance of sky and earth, And they urge, they urge— It leads me to the heart of hope.

• Robert Bly