No matter how many journeys they make

the geese will always grab my spirit

each time they fly over,

wings swishing a ticklish breeze,

voices echoing off clouds.

Tonight dozens of swishing, echoing arrows

flew under and around the swelling moon

as the sun reclined behind the canyon

leaving the burnt orange of dusk in its wake.

How marvelous it must be

see your silhouette etched into the moon,

to caress the changing colors of the sky.