An Older Language

Riding up on a southwest wind
in the wet March chill at sunset,
wild geese circled our farm and
dropped in to feed on a patch of corn
an early snow kept us from husking.
I can hear them now, talking softly
among themselves, a strange goose gabble,
strange as their long flight north.
Memory warns me as I listen,
goose talk starts goose flesh,
makes my blood drum with winged
savage pulses, wakes in my ear
a summons the old March wind
still carries.