and suddenly a canopy of geese were above me,
an undulating form, waving wildly from all sides,
like the rainbow
parachute we floated above us in kindergarten,
when we needed more joy. Its chaos, rhythmic.
Its momentum carrying itself forward.
And the circle of pines, standing beneath, like we did—
lifting the great canopy and keeping measure:
air things in air, earth things on earth.
Not the soft rustle of flight, but their wild braying
is why I noticed them at all, consumed as I was with gravity—
curbs and fences, and my to-do list weighing heavy.
How beautifully they harkened to one another, their voices echoing-
a round of song made religious by the cathedral of sky.
Their offering, instinctive and purposeful. A prayer to find their way.
I couldn’t tell which was the leader. Maybe there was no leader.
In their thrust, I couldn’t make out an individual, only the whole
of them navigating together. Each of them completely necessary.
They passed overhead, impervious to the dramas below—
I exist only as data—not a threat, not food. I’m as inconsequential
as a telephone pole. And this morning, I appreciate that.
It’s nice to be inconsequential sometimes.
It’s nice to be reminded that I’m only a speck
on the surface of this earth—to look up and take a breath
before heading home
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 4.
Kasha Martin Gauthier lives outside Boston with her family. A member of PoemWorks: The Workshop for Publishing Poets, Kasha’s work has appeared in Constellations, Breakwater Review, Slipstream, and Rockvale Review, and was included in Essential Voices: A Covid-19 Anthology (West Virginia University, 2023). She’s currently working on her first collection. Guathier’s poetry is informed by her family dynamics, upbringing in the woods of New Hampshire, and careers in business and cybersecurity.
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