Linda Benninghoff


rested on the incline
of the far field,
immobile, blending
in with the undergrowth
and thin snow.

I had forgotten,
if I had followed the north trail
that led back to my home
or had made some wrong turn
into the center of the park.

Only the geese
stopped there,
in rows,
hungry and bitterly cold.

They made jittery motions,
flapped wings,
stood up in the air,
stretched their long necks,
exposed their pale under-wings,
flew skywards,
then bore east.
They made a sound as sad and powerful
as a child.

The white hill was empty,
narrow, brown spaces left
where the thinnest layer of snow
had melted from the heat of their heavy bodies.

Location: Huntington, New York
Publications: Hidden Oak, Pegasus, Red Owl Magazine, The Journal, Current Accounts, Parting Gifts, etc.

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