 I traveled up outside to Great Falls to celebrate my birthday and our anniversary. And I have the snow geese migration to thank for this. Flyway. The mystery of migration shimmers. As the sky is filled with calls where snow geese script their congregation of a language known to them that leads me breathless. Beside the lake half frozen, brushed by a warming sky, my shadow long before me, I wonder at the skeins of whistling wings whose calligraphy floats above the copper willow, the brassy fields of grain. This wild call of thousands transforms the moments of a March morning as I ache to fly the filaments to write my birthday across the forever blue beyond the front of mountains over the tawny youths and bluffs ignited by this sunrise. No other world exists but this luminous sea of black edged white wing and chorus where my eyes rest where my shadow crosses reflections. What drew me here beside this long swept land that leaves distance to my imagination? Wild calls engraved in sky and lake where captails bend to rising moon pale by setting sun. I may cross no bar of space to rise on wing but am transfixed. Cry out to answer voices hidden within that break of dawn. Thank you.