Tell me, Mary Oliver,
mother of wild geese devotion-

On such a windswept November day,
gusts bending small branches
almost to snap point,
finishing off autumn leaves-
their colored husks, spiraling
down against our bodies
that push into invisible walls of wind,
occasionally tipping us sideways
in fervent blasts:

Do geese still fly
in wild winds?
Or are they grounded,
feathers melding
as they huddle together
in burnt amber fields,
satiny heads tucked under wings,
waiting
for fairer weather?