Rik George writes

Remembrance Eleven

The autumn heralds the winter to come
The last few tattered leaves are falling.
Overhead the geese are calling
From the sky’s unclouded dome.

The afternoon holds its breath
Until the geese have sung their song.
The twilight comes creeping along
The sagebrush scattered on the heath,
 
The stars are waiting in the wings
For their cue to take the stage and dance
Across the Cosmos, and wheel and prance
To charm the commons and the kings.

Wild Geese -- Henry Donovan