from the barley fields now harvested,
the wild geese take to wing
as if answering a mystic beckoning from a place beyond
this time to which we cling,
this last mellowing of summer’s joy,
this fading amber of softening light
when the savory smoke of distant fires
drifts among the mountain firs.
the wild geese, in their time, must leave me now
for it is the way of time,
this sounding of this soulful chime,
this call, this fateful call,
this wild and holy call from beyond the mists of days yet to be,
an unknown future that has both always been
but yet has ne’er been before,
this nearly present immortal door,
through which we all must pass
if we dare to live beyond these barley fields
we’ve only known,
in the summertime,
the sweet summertime,
when all was hope of coming harvest
and dreams of dreams to come.
yes, i hear the flutter of their wings
as the wild geese rise for their outgoing
in the fading amber of the softening light
and in the smoke of distant fires.
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