Poetry

Copper brown Egyptian geese are in the marsh,
they call from the plumed reeds
and they leave flat tracks in the clay
when they walk past in a small group
and I hear them from far of on the porch
when the pond resound with their voices
just their at the old sunken sloop
where I notice the sun shining on the water,
how they suddenly fly up and spread
as they avoid a dog that is running loose.