Peeling

 

Geese cut overhead

like a joyful knife,

skinning a winter’s dawn,

 

and you look down 

at the blade 

held 

by your own hand —

the one

quietly severing your own wing —

and 

set it down.

 

Don’t look back.

Instead 

fill your span with 

homesong 

 

let the tumbling tearing truth

claim you

feather you

heal you

 

with a traveling song,

messy and raucous and 

real

 

pelting the mountains

with rimy peals, 

a call spun of 

sunrise.