The Geese Always Tell Me the Same Thing

by John Brantingham

       Dawn blues itself around me on the edge of Quaker Lake this morning. I hold my teacup, my hands grasping the sides for its warmth. Last night, my father talked to me about his will because the end is coming, and he is a man of responsibility.
       The rich scent of mud surrounds me. I sip my tea and am happily unpersoned. Here, I am not a man’s son. Here, I am an animal watching the light. I listen to the geese calling to each other.
       Tonight, I will call my father. He will talk, and I will listen.