Canadian goose sitting
On retaining wall of stone.
Bellied up to the roadside edge,
Seemingly alone.

Wistful and wishful the goose,
While watching the men working-
On sterile high rise apartments
Near build-it-and-they-will-come bars.

With wings that can fly, oh why,
Does it seem like he will jump?
It's a 10 ft fall way down below
To a concrete & chrome filled dump.

I look into his eyes to find,
The huge suffering he feels.
But further there beyond the goose,
A habitat's revealed.

A winding glade n' Greenway path,
To an urban pond and park.
Not as grim to him, I see--
friends swimming by the dock.

Yes, a goose will always find
The water in the sprawl.
He'll find the pretty little stream,
By offices & malls.

To be goose, is to be free
Of yearning and supposing.
Of thinking how things ought to be,
Unsettled by the hoping.

If I could find my little stream,
Oh, maybe I could swim.
I could honk and splash and settle down-
Find the peace somewhere within.