A five of spades of geese
is spreading itself thin
above the lake, and higher
overhead, the clouds move
like continental drift, nations unmoored
from their states, slow and athletic.
A wind goes through
a royal flush of foliage
and when the maples clap their hands
their hands go flying off.
They scuttle, exoskeleton-like, on the path ahead.
Like a glove my gloved hand
fits to your ungloved hand, our major
to minor keys, and all the pines
and all the pianos in the woods
hold sway over our one held note.
We walk swiftly, two to make
a larger wake, you once said.
One to notice the geese, I think
and one to take note of the leaves.
And with a sense of our own
burgeoning we paraded on, one float
soberly passing alongside of
another buoyant float.