Today I stood underneath the belly of a goose,

its feathers formed the perfect intersection of down

from each side of a soft, plump paunch.

Then past my arched neck and over the road,

the falter of a bent wing threw the bird off balance

and I caught my breath for the goose and for the car below.

But then its flight amended towards the greater air,

and my fingers unfastened from a tight, frozen clutch

wondering at palms that know how to merge

sometimes without cognitive consent.

And when we have tilted sideways on uncorrected wing—

when we are bent in half by the unexplained

and move quickly towards the asphalt,

or watch the perfect spine of others try and correct their flight,

somehow the faces of our furrowed hands know to come together

and mouth the words that have always been there

for us, and from the vastness of sky