Now, voyager

In the late afternoon, when the sun starts to set in the winter, I looked out my window and saw eight geese flying westward. They sailed off into the blue sky like very fast ships, no flapping, and not in any sort of formation. Their bodies were glowing white rubber balloons that repelled the sunlight. Each balloon had two wing-like protrusions, very still; all of them were zooming simultaneously toward some indistinguishable fate.

Birds approach their future without knowing where it lies or how they will get there, but only that they must go.

And Sarah McLachlan sang on.

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