The northern winds now whisper cold and thin,
A warning sung through branches stark and bare,
As geese take flight into the frosted air,
Drawn southward by a voice that speaks within.
In V-shaped ranks, they rise and wheel again,
A silver thread unraveled high and rare,
Their cries, a farewell echo, bold and fair,
A hymn to lands where kinder days begin.
Yet though they flee, they do not flee in ...
