A gray flock shaped like a V flew overhead going East as I drove in silence. Their outstretched shadows outpaced my car and black and gray fluttered over houses, sunlight on trees briefly disrupted to track their progressing honking and squealing.
As the geese flew out of sight, silence re-emerged except for gravel under my tires and the great stirring of wind through green trees.
It’s a wonder how those needles bend and shape the air around so it sounds like a whoosh and then a whirr.
I park the car to wander under impossible blue expanses to ponder improbabilities, although as an optimist I always hold out for the best, and walk through a white snow under a canopy of trees and sink into section not yet traversed, the crunch of my boots steady and the chirping of birds cheerful.
Here shadows fall over logs and beside small brooks etching through forest floors. In a few days this snow will have melted and only pine needles and grass will remain.
The geese have returned and fly westward now, against the wind, soaring together on an updraft above the tops of the trees. My gaze remains heavenward and I wonder how to adequately describe the freedom of a ramble in the woods, how to understand the beauty of nine geese in unison, the unity of the V, and how on this almost-spring day, to explain the hope in the air.