The Wedge of Wings

INTO the gray sky, over me
And frozen landscapes of waiting things,
Drifts a challenge; again I see
The wild geese drive the wedge of wings.

Rhythmic and slow, it opens wide
A crack of vibrant light that grows,
Flooding vast arches on either side
With gold and hyacinth and rose.

Into the brightness fades the wedge
That opened it, drifts the cry — between
Winter and spring — that stirred the edge
Of space before the wings were seen.

Into the gray sky, over place
And time, the wedge of wings drives on . . .
Leaving upon each lifted face
Reflections from the crack of dawn.