Mystic Geese Along the Gnostic Merrimack
a lesson to be learned for my own ongoing long transition
Walking by the river on an early March late afternoon,
I listen to the sounds of embryonic spring—
the trill of red-winged blackbirds in the trees,
the crying of the geese along the shore,
the overwhelming silence from a newly yawning sun.
That rising eye has turned the vast expanse of marsh and river,
woods and fields across the river,
into something spacious fresh and open,
just inviting simple contemplation of it all.
That's when I notice geese are gathering
together in the middle of the waterway
and floating as one congregation down the river—
but the thing that mostly stops me there,
arrests my vision, holds me in my tracks,
and testifies that more is sure to come:
all are floating backwards down the stream,
as if surrendering themselves completely to the current,
practicing the Zen of geese
or Tao of tidal rivers
or the pure acceptance of some shorebird Karma
on that early March late afternoon.
I stand in witness, knowing
by some silent motionless communication
this was prelude to their taking flight.
And momentarily the water churns and wings are opening,
as if such action only follows acquiescence
to the river flowing on beneath their outstretched necks,
creating opportunity for movement
only if its destination is completely disregarded,
taking that reflection underneath their wings
~Son Rivers 2008
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