Above Miner's Pond, geese break out of the sky's pale shell. They speak non-stop, amazed they've returned from the stars, hundreds of miles to describe. It's not that they're wild, but their will is the same as desire. The sky peels back under their blade. Like a train trestle, something in us rattles. All November, under their passing.
— Anne Michaels, Miner’s Pond