Hoping to Arrive

By Richard Levine

A barking arrowhead of geese
shot the moon on a rainy night.
Warm and dry in our dreams, we heard
their barks and wet-feathered crossing,
and shivered and held each other
against their miles of drenching risk.

They could have been war or climate
refugees, fleeing from the ruins
of once happy, fruitful lives.
Or like us, glimpsing ourselves in
shop windows and puddled reflections,
hoping to arrive in a prayer of wings,
though fists of wind pound at our door,
               as if night were raining darkness.