disappearing in winter. They don’t dive beneath
the river, bury
their light-boned bodies
in mud. They do not become different
birds, thicken
feathers, gain mass. They fly
south. We know no goose
springs full from log
barnacles—Bechstein’s philosophy
wrong as well. When my old neighbor
sends a photo
of geese returned
to the home no longer
mine, I ache
to transform, to grow slender
wings from shoulder blades
cutting crustacean
scallops on fertile wood, shedding
mud flesh to fly feathered. It’s better
to believe red starts become
robins, garden warbler
black cap than know another
soul has turned beak
to leave.
We are flockless
in the winter flight.
–
Heather Truett holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Memphis and is a Ph.D. candidate in fiction at FSU. Her debut novel, KISS AND REPEAT, released from Macmillan in 2021, and she teaches creative writing at Interlochen Fine Arts Camp. She has work featured in Spoon Knife, Hunger Mountain, Abandon Journal, and Sweet Lit. Heather is represented by Hilary Harwell at KT Literary.