Sonnet CLXXIV

The farmer’s field behind my backyard nest
is gold and vast and flows to forest’s green
so far away. There stood the greyish geese,
Canadian and proud. And from the west
there blew almighty winds that caused unrest
and sent the geese, amidst the howling breeze,
to form a line, a fence, to fight the freeze
of wind attacking them. And all the best
they tried, protecting young, embracing death,
a noble flock of geese, a flustered bunch.
But passing with a flutter, that cruel gale
had passed and turned Chinook-like as a breath,
Zephyr as gentle as a passing sun,
as weak as farmers feeding geese their sales.