New constellations rise

earlier each night

ending the dance of summer.

In autumn I wait for the first flights

from fading Arctic light.

Gray-bodied Canadians arrive first,

then snow geese follow

their white wings tipped with black.

Emigres in flight,

they call for lost brothers

beneath November’s moon.

In daylight they sometimes

fly so low I hear their wing beats.

Then, they become the heart

of a great sky:

their skeins

like pulsing arteries

bringing the sky to life.