A CYPHER OF GEESE

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i heard somewhere
i didn’t read,                 (i don’t think?)
about geese & william styron
about geese & william styron & depression

i think it went that he knew 
he was depressed because of the geese
that one morning
                              rose 
                              over the trees 
                              over the james river

                              (i think?
                              maybe, it was evening?
                              maybe, it was his road?) 

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& the sound of their honking
the overwhelming resonance 
of their collective sounding
didn’t rise with them 

                             but overtook everything

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& how this sight        (no, not sight
                             more so this sound)

did nothing for him 
did nothing to make
him feel 
a single thing

                             & i remember my dad 
                             for some reason 
                             on the couch next to me
                             letting out a little laugh 

​

i’ve heard the geese 
these past few weeks 
who rise in hoards
from the reaped 
& plowed & furrowed fields
at dinnertime over my yard
over my bare trees

                             & their collective sounding
                             overtakes me because

it is a quality 
of sound
i have never heard 
not be human
not be plane
not be passing truck
not be fire siren 

                              but a loud sound 
                              of prehistory 
                              of this place
                              that is now
                              my backyard

but the geese i hear
these past few weeks
are flying neither  
north nor south           but
in circles around 
my house & back 
to winter-ready fields 
                              in a v
                              that is no v but
                              a cypher of birds 
                              making new letters
                              for an alphabet 

                              of these times 
                              of eighty-degree 
                              novembers in 
                              new england

                              of these times
                              of not knowing 
                              if going south 
                              is too far south

 
                              or if here is even north 
                              anymore

maybe it is the geese
now     that are depressed like 
i remember hearing william styron 
was once                 in my dad’s laugh