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The call

John Dennison

for Fyfe Blair

The rain passes. Away on the edge of town, the geese lift, gaining difficultly in the thin morning, a congregation welling up out of muddied fields, and rising into the burnished west, breasting the hill-shot air. I watch them go, a dream of wing-beat and assent beyond say-so, beyond call, and I long for the swoop and grab by the scruff of the neck, the unquestioning, unlooked-for lift out of this menagerie, this forsaken plot, the proving ground of love.