Merril D. Smith Leaves, rain, night,a bullet-ripped child— so many things fall,are falling— the crows, black-winged tocsins,sound warnings, but it’sthe geese I observe— the parents still guardingtheir almost-grown goslings, the way they listen for the call to flythen take turns leading. I watch them soar,hear the wind-flap of their wings— I’m not starving, nor beaten,nor … Continue reading Falling, Flying