Mothers

The spring sky sits grey and rain drips dreary. I am stuck: stuck at the draw bridge, looking. Baby geese, all fluff and feathers, follow their mother into the canal’s gates. There are five babies, maybe six, tumbling onto the path their mother set. I am not an expert of ornithology, but one day perhaps they will set off on their own journey, feathers soaring into a garden of clouds, feathers coasting into gentle lakes, feathers flying under the sun that sets amber over their allotted days. But for now, here they are, grey and white and fluff, toddling after their mother, following her every footstep, watching her every move.

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