The landscape doesn't tell
whether the honking geese
are late in leaving
before a a winter that has
brought down its first snows
on a withered autumn,
or early arrived
amidst a retreating winter
revealing autumn's ruins,
but the calendar wrought
from bone and stone
and made into paper
tells me it's the spring,
and their own calendar
of much older creation
tells them the same,
and hearing them,
I believe mine.
29.03.2025
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