by Jacqueline Jules
Geese cross the road
as a group, blithely unaware
of cars stopped and waiting.
Why do creatures capable of flight
waddle, one webbed foot at a time,
no hint of hurry?
On the other side, they seek
tasty morsels in the grass
with great satisfaction.
What do they know
that I do not?
Could it be that flying
is not as necessary
as I’ve always thought?
And maybe I could stop
flapping my wings and try
walking across the traffic
like the geese, without
ruffling a feather?
* * * * *
Jacqueline Jules is the author
of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021) and Itzhak
Perlman's Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from
Evening Street Press. Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications
including The Sunlight Press, Gyroscope Review, and One
Art. She is also the author of two poetry books for young
readers, Tag Your Dreams: Poems of Play and Persistence (Albert
Whitman, 2020) and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel
& Peck, 2023). Visit www.jacquelinejules.com
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