The wind moves, and things move in it.

 Gray Goose Winter

Snow falls like eiderdown and so do I. 
White ices fenceposts and my feathers.
I snap my wings out wide and drop
into space. My flock is already gone. 

White ices fenceposts and my feathers. 
It's hard, keeping aloft -- the cold presses me
into space; my flock is already gone. 
Some far south, some below the snow. 

It's hard. Keeping aloft, the cold presses me.
Either way I will not see them again --
some far south. Some beneath the snow.
I tilt my wings and plummet down.

Either way I won't see them again. 
There will be no last migration. 
I tilt my wings and plummet down. 
The ground is hard, the river ice. 

There will be no last migration.
I snap my wings out wide and drop.
The ground is hard. The river, ice. 
Snow falls, like eiderdown. And so do I.

Naked knees locked together, we are lying
flat on our backs with books
on our bellies. We talk
in line length and rhythm - we stare up
at the ceiling, our hands pushing 
into the empty air between us.
The fan flickers light-patterns
over the walls and your body. The bed
groans beneath us, the heat
presses our hips and shoulders down
against the mattress, your fingers
tangle in the sheets. 



Not anywhere near done - this is, I think, all leadup to what the poem is actually about. Still. I will work on it later.