Above Shewbird Mountain
the wild goose wends
northward on feathered fins.
In V-shape he heads
his honking flock
through uncharted course.
Off buried loggers’ roadbed
evening shadows ricochet
through poplar, beech, hickory,
and block all worry.
The bleeding sky reflects
like cinders in an oval pond,
where the wild geese drive down
for an overnight’s rest.


From Shewbird Mountain (Finishing Line Press, 2006).
This poem first appeared in Appalachian Heritage.
Used here with the author's permission.