I may live longer, but these free ones fly
closer to God, caressed by wind and light
so fair and generous, I know they're blessed
above most creatures. The wild geese, tonight,
pass overhead with joyful shouts. My rest
ends suddenly and with a longing sigh,
I turn towards the window. Shadow-wings
whisper below the March moon. Trees are dressed
in silver, where no finch or wood thrush sings.
A barred owl drops a feather on my lawn,
calls to his mate, then circles and is gone.

Brenda Tate