Seven generations of no migration. Winters
on the ice-free breast of the Willamette, Bybee Lake,
the green lawns of Sellwood, industrial plazas at Swan Island
that haven’t seen swans in a hundred years—
these geese think of Canada the way
my cousins and I think of China. A place
we own some connection to, but
go there? No. Why? Not our place.
But this time of year. When the wild flocks pass over.
They get restless. Big Vs over Delta Park,
headed for the water meadows on the Slough,
singing that old, old, wayfaring song.
And once in a while. At Silver Springs
or in the Reed College canyon—one bird sees
a single perfect red maple leaf
floating on its own reflection like an Escher print
and the water trembles with unknown desire.
Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
