I am weary as the geese must be when they migrate, flapping great wings through the sky, on and on and on.
I wonder if the one at the point of the "V" gets tired and wishes someone else would lead for awhile, would poke his long neck through the resistance of the air, would determine the direction, would let instinct be the guide to the next liquid resting place.
I wonder if those geese grow heavy of heart and want to close their eyes against the brightness of the sun and wish they could be still for awhile and not move with the seasons.
Do any of those great birds in the pattern wonder if it is going to get dark before they find a lake or a pond or a marsh or a slough and even if they do if it will have food in it to sustain them on their long journey on the morrow?
Do any of those great birds miss what they are leaving behind or do they accept that seasons change, water freezes, snow comes, that winters fade, and north will be a good thing again in a few months?
I am weary as the geese must be when they migrate, and I do not want to flap my wings any more today, and so I glide down, fold my eyelids and my feet and my efforts.