by Buff Whitman-Bradley
A cold wet December dawn
Bundled in our rain gear we sit blocking the driveway
That leads into the World Headquarters
Standing behind us is a phalanx of police in riot gear
Brandishing their batons
On the street just in front of us rush hour traffic roars past
Sirens scream bullhorns blare
Above the buildings across the street
A small flock of Canada geese is heading in our direction
As they approach I am able to hear them converse
In the primordial language of their kind
And when they are directly overhead
All else grows still all other sounds drop away
The streets the cops the cars evaporate
The offices and malls vanish
We ourselves evanesce into the honking of geese
And the gray morning light
Not far away now
Where the World Headquarters once stood
Seven wild geese descend through the icy drizzle
And come to rest on the cold waters
Of a small pond they have returned to for a thousand years
Buff Whitman-Bradley is a peace and social justice activist in Northern California. In addition to writing, he produces documentary videos and audios. With his wife Cynthia, he is co-producer/director of the award winning video Outside In, about people who visit prisoners on San Quentin's death row.
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