On A Sunday Walk

An eruption of geese
came yelling off the pond
as if a bomb had dropped.
Too soon for migration,
more like a gang-fight
or playground ruck,

low and startled,
almost in touching range,
I felt the thrum of wings,
the rythmn of release
in the pounding
delirium overhead.

but I would have gone
with the rattled geese
if I could
and battered the air,
knifing a flightpath
in sudden, brutish joy.