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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Geese

The sky called to itself
in its mirthless emptiness.
It had wings.
They flew in vast, irregular joy.
The air boiled with their flight.
We heard them coming.
Cries from the purple dusk.
Horns blowing the last gasp
of an organ.
We waved in exhilaration,
as if angels had materialized
from the zenith.
Flock after flock
over the tired heat of the day.

In the encroaching night
Jackie yelled like a thrush
calling to eagles.
Michael pointed,
his small voice calling geese, geese,
his storybook come alive.
Catherine and Melissa,
in the falling beauty of the race
above us,
pointed to a storm
of ancient energy.

And inside,
my heart circled from east to west,
vibrating,
as if a song,
long suppressed,
was set free from its cage,
and I was liberated,
like a bird resigned to death,
now seeing his brothers and sisters
calling him home,
taking his children with him.

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