Permission
There
are three nesting pairs
of geese on the river this
spring—
last night we watched them
swimming
for the island:
one pair had seven goslings,
strung out
like pearls between the
clasps of them;
a second pair had one between
them,
their shadow a small mountain
range;
the final pair had none. They swam
to the island with the
others, as if teaching
young geese
to swim. Their loss
was strung in space across
river water
and everyone on the dock
discussed
the taking of goslings by the
pair of eagles
who hunt here all year.
I know this is right, this is
good—the eagles
do not need our permission to
eat. But—
I see now I am too much in
the house
of my mind, to listen to the unpermissioned
needs of
the body. How will
I will change enough to
celebrate
the full
bellies of wild eagles?
