The gosling waits eagerly
To become a grand gander.

Ruffling, awake all night,
Plucking at its down
At all hours, shaking,
Stretching its tiny wings.

It knows something
Of feathers and long
Sinuous necks,
These things it was promised.

It’s a gray day, overcast,
Dry, getting deep into winter
When it looks overhead
And sees its last few mates
Take wing and head south —

When it realizes
That its future passed it over,
Never looked down,
That this winter (and
Every winter, if it sees another)

It will remain a gosling
A small thing
Being left behind.

Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in Peekskill, New York. He spends his life hanging out with a wonderful wife and daughter, and cycling rapidly through projects that rarely seem to get finished. His writing can be found in Berfrois and Issue 116 of Right Hand Pointing.

Twitter and Instagram: @miksimum  /  Website: www.miksimum.com.