Three times in a week I have heard the geese. Each time, I think of this poem, and recall the first time it possessed me, so long ago, and also, just yesterday.
I heard this song one cold morning, and the first thing I thought of: it is the Northeast inviting Spring.
Spring is playing hard-to-get.
The Northeast is courting her with industry.
She dances in another direction.
But she'll be back.
It has been cold. Then colder. Then colder still.
Roofs have been leaking.
Gutters falling to the ground, the weight of ice bringing them down.
Then a tiny bit warm, and being tough Rochesterians, we take what we are given (29 degrees) and put on t-shirts and sport our un-sunned limbs.
Then the next day: snow, and 15. But no matter. I've heard the geese twice. So the end is near.
This morning, near midnight, I wake to hear them a third time.
A student I know, one who farms and plants and follows the Farmer's Almanac, stopped me in the hall.
"Do you know what it is?" he asked.
He goes by four seasons.
"It's almost spring," I say.
"Two more days," he says, holding up two fingers, like a peace sign, like V for Victory. We do a high-five. And continue in opposite directions.
"Wait," I call back to him. "What about the snow this morning?"
He holds up those two fingers.
"Two days!" he repeats.
I'll take his word for it.
And the geese.
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