CALL OF THE WILD
Driving north in the pelting rain
I see a line of wild geese arrowing
Southwest toward more clement climes,
Harvest gleanings on their minds.
I hear the faint persistent calls
By which they organize themselves.
Already one is flapping forward
To take the lead, relieve his comrade.
Why is it that I feel compulsion
To join this southerly migration?
Is it the winter that I’d flee
Or would I be one of that company?
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