Flight Path


A bit of an introduction is in order, I believe, for this poem–and yes, I am calling it a poem, because it employs my friend Nita’s definition of poetry: “the best word in the best order.”  Technically, I think this is a prose poem, and hope to be doing more of these from now on.  It was very freeing to do after being locked in to 5-7-5 for so long.

Flight Path

by Julie Sumner

Snowy fog emanates from the still-summer-warm lake.  It is October in Tennessee, trees in the ochre, plum, and coral of a southern fall.  The geese have stopped here-for the whole winter? For just a day? How do they read their instinctive itinerary? Making a great racket, they wing into flight by fours and sixes–forming lines, angles, and ellipses.  Feathers and noise above the water, they circle, form one gentle apex heading further south.  For a long moment, they are silent but for the sound of twenty wings beating, beating, beating, reverberating off the hills, engulfing the lake, echoing my own heart.


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