This Morning at Dawn

from Field Stones
by Robert Kinsley

Two geese fly over low, wings
parallel to the water, parallel to the sky

Where are they going?  To whom do they call
in the coming light?  Is the hoarseness of voice

our voice repeated, repeating as if
this day is the one we glided through

down the voiceless womb we came into being,
our bodies slippery as water, certain as wings

going somewhere, parallel somehow
to the crying out, the hunger.