Last Year's Geese

I watched the geese today, by the road where we chased them. They are the same geese, I think. They waddle the same, bob their heads the same, kink and unkink their necks the same. They wander across the road, blocking traffic as they quarrel amongst themselves about what angle to travel at, and how close together to walk. They have the same black necks, the same splash of white across the cheeks. Their backs are the same color, the soft brown-grey of winter leaves. They peck at each other, querulously, then tear at the dull grass.

I remember: stalking them from either side; your stealthy movements, my stifled amusement; the eruption of feathers, the clatter of wings; the rush and wind and noise of the disrupted flock, taking off into the forest, into the sky. I remember: your arms around me, blackness in your eyes; an unreadable smile; the flurry of your words, flapping everywhere and swirling like fallen feathers. I did not expect to remember you this long.

The geese are the same, and the weather is the same. (Sun and wind and chill: February.) But you are not here, thank goodness, and I am not the same, either.