And in the marshy field that drinks some of
this river, legs muffed in shifting steam,
pale geese negotiate and wrangle, preen
and complain, beaks the black of a leather glove
and gauntlets already thrown down in rage.
The territory, contested mates, the page
of the pecking order struck out and reprinted.
Their foghorns sound a newly-minted
leader’s coronation, then the lot
are off again in an elegant V
that constantly shuffles its hierarchy,
which navigates the bitter winds though the squawk
of contention keeps clamoring on and on.
Make them our republic’s emblem, its callsign.