Last night. Goose travels through changing seasons, from falling leaves to falling snow. What does he seek? Brethren pass in and out of our lives. We still move on. Time passes; the seasons mark. Our days the only constant. The banjo plays high and lonesome and the spirit leaves the body. Tune out tipsy voices, the hush of rustling coats. The notes crawl inside you and sound out in the cavern of your heart, the echoes so loud you hear nothing else. You hear nothing else, only what the goose knows, without even knowing it. Restless and lost, with only the seasons to remind us of the coming end, our silhouettes stark against a bone white moon.
Posted by birds fly on April 23, 2011