Susan McLean

Flyway

Wild geese trace lines that overlap and merge
like fluid cursive scrawled across the sky,
honking in concert as their paths converge.
I barely can recall being that high,
that free, that restless, merely passing through
without a plan, just some inchoate drive
to find a place I didn’t know I knew,
one that I might not ever reach alive.

At college, I hear students in the halls,
greeting each other, grouping and diverging
before the flight on which they’re outward bound.
Their raucous chatter drowns my futile calls.
But why should they change course or heed the urging
of one who’s long been tethered to the ground?