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"Like this morning, when the wild geese come squawking, flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek across the sky made me think about my life, the places of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief has strung me out to dry.
And then the geese come calling, the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings.
Look at the trees.
They turn to gold for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst weather has to offer.
And still, they put out shy green leaves come April, come May.
The geese glide over the cornfields, land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise.
Even a goose knows how to find shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.
- Barbara Crooker
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