Waiting for the Goslings

A Hometown Poem

one nest
already broke open
like jazz after silence --
downy bodies tumbling out
wide-eyed and ready
to follow
whatever moves with love.
they know water before they know
their names
(if they have names)
they swim without knowing
why they can
or what comes next.
but the other nest
still holds breath
tight as a fist
beneath the mother’s breast
and we wait --
on cracked sidewalks
on porch steps
in stillness loud enough
to echo.
you’d think
we’d learn patience
from the pond
but we keep
leaning forward
squinting like
we can will
new life
just by looking.
and maybe we can.
maybe the waiting
isn’t just about hatching
but how we learn
to sit with unknowing
to honor silence
without filling it.
there are goslings
in the nest
and goslings
in the world --
soft
new
sometimes foolish
following anything
that looks like
it knows
the way.
and aren’t we
always
some kind of gosling
learning to walk
in a world
too big
for our wings
but not
for our wonder.

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