The first fall
after we moved
from the city,
we walked together
under the changing
leaves of cottonwoods.
For years, each of us
had chased happiness
desperately through
jobs, hobbies, and
questionable invitations.
Suddenly, above
the quiet country road,
a flock of
wild geese appeared;
no pursuit
was necessary.
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My Rhode Island Red and big white hen,
Flew over the fence again.
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Poetry: Wild goose chase
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