Mist over the river
the goose is calling for rain.
Her cry bittersweet
as she hides in wild grass,
white among wispy greens --
much like these onions
nesting in sprigs of fennel.
I'll add them to my soup
simmering on the stove.
Soon the dampness will deepen (it must)
and when you come back
tired, lagging from its chill,
you will notice the homemade warmth.
A flame burns low,
the goose is calling for rain.
Our voices kindred
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