of Society

Pennsylvania Migrants

A cornfield sawed off
Run over by geese
They honk, pick at kernels
unfit for swan consumption.
Swans, bride-white
Straight as poker, slid
across a gilded pond.
Not the geese, road-side
Raucous and miscolored.
Why won’t they just go back to Canada?
In any moment they can march
And take flight,
their necks stretched to sun.

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