The snow goose flies on, steadies us, is stubborn and strong.
Her wings slowly sweep beneath the plane’s wings,
the quiver I feel is a heart beating, and when we break
the clouds and Minneapolis grows beneath us in the dark,
the goose slows and we slip from her back and float down,
over houses where people wash dinner dishes,
turn on the TV and dish up bowls of ice cream.
Soon we will be back on the ground, as safe as anyone else,
my eyes open and the geese honking above me, small again.