Who taught them how to plow that furrow in the sky?

From what school did they graduate?

Where might we find the diploma and whose signature does it bear?

Can’t figure it out, I tell you.

Seems to me such artistry is a learned thing.

Perhaps it’s simply a matter of math.

C squared equals A squared plus B squared.

Aha! A hypotenuse!

Yet I see no pencils, tapes or rulers.

Only 18 geese,

Honking words to one another.

“Your turn to take the point!”

“Stay in formation, now!”

“How much farther?”

“Keep up, out there on the end!”

“Just a few thousand more miles!”

“Looking good down the line!”

“Move a little to the left! Concentrate!”

Head tilted back, I watch in dismay.

They pay me little mind.

Only an earthling, I am,

Another soil bound creature,

Moving slowly, a slave to gravity,

While on wings of freedom

They mock my cumbersome way,

As sunsets beckon them forth

And clouds tickle their feathers.

They fade away, like morning mist, enveloped by the sky,

While I stand planted, clinching fists, wishing I could fly.