John Stintzi

There are Canada Geese on Long Island spelling color
with a U as they hulk around golf-turf lawns, hungrily

dreaming of poutine. I watch from the sidewalk.
To be honest, we're equally surprised to meet each other.

I think, Canada Goose! They think, Canada Human!
as I take their waddling stance in the lawn alongside them,

gaggling out. At first I feel at home, and at second I feel
displaced, near Islanders who believe the call of the goose

is Eh!, who believe the goose will apologize for getting shot.
But do geese not honk at passersby in a New York tone of voice?

I mean cawmawn! our head goose barks, waddling around,
defecating on the rich greenery. I agree with her, arms out

as if stuck in a chicken dance. We will speed to the beach,
I decide. And when we get there we will never build an igloo.

Or club any seals. We will wear Dolce & Gabbana shades. But
if you ever catch us suckling maple syrup, know it is delicious.