By Charles M. Sumid       Copyright 2025      Written 2011

October morning, the lake holds its breath.

She’s been here since August,
watching the rehearsals—
young geese practicing formations that break apart like bad arguments.

But today, something different.

Third from left, second row.

Not the strongest flyer, not the oldest.

Just the one whose wingbeat the others fall into without knowing why.

She’s learned to read this.

Which bird holds true north in her bones,
which ones are merely loud.

The difference shows in the shoulders,
how they dip before the turn that saves miles.

Her first year watching, she followed the wrong bird—
the magnificent gander who led straight into storm cells.

The real guides often fly middle position,
editing the route with subtle shoulder drops.

This year’s leader tilts her head just so,
testing wind rivers no map shows.

The flock adjusts without discussion.

The watchers with their cameras see spectacle—
hundreds rising like smoke.

She sees the small negotiations,
consensus built in the pre-dawn hours.

Tomorrow they’ll be gone.

But she’s already noting which yearlings watch that third-from-left bird,
learning her dialect of flight.

Next October’s leader is here somewhere,
absorbing what cold is coming.

She packs her scope.

In her journal she writes date, wind speed, departure time.

What she doesn’t write—
how the one who leads
moves like trust between bodies
who know where water waits.