Parking Lot
by Stephen Sandy
Hard to believe the racket geese make, squabbling,holding a confab in the dark--pitch dark to him padding back to check the lights; yes, the windows are dark.
But that honking down on the pond, like angry taxis, stops him: late geese on their way--he thinks--homeward. But geese are home, wherever. A continent. Are acting without accomplices; no past or future to know. That squawky banter is an irremediable thing.
He makes for his car, the office shut down. Now someone passes him. They know each other--each speaks with mild surprise the other's name,no more. And heads his separate way across the dark.
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