They cross the skyscape,
dark, gray valleys,
majestic white mountains,
and vast blue seas,
flying in straight lines,
or sometimes in
those classic Vs.
I hear them calling
on foggy mornings,
their honking filters
through the rattling
of the brittle leaves
too stubborn to know
when to let go
of the branches
when the wind blows.
I always wonder
where it is
they go.
M. Zane McClellan
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