I—watched—in Cloak of Silence— No Feather—marked my Skin— Yet—somewhere—in their Spiral— I—too—was folded in

The Unseen Witness
by Ann,

I took a path the geese had worn—
Not paved, but pressed by feathered tread—
Where clover bent and grass was torn
By seven young and two ahead.

The mother walked with head held high,
The father grazed with half a glance,
And I, behind them, watched the sky
For signs of fate or circumstance.

They did not turn, nor did they speak,
But moved as if the world were known—
A rhythm old, a language sleek,
A lineage carved in flesh and bone.

I kept my silence, kept my pace,
A stranger not entirely strange—
For something in their solemn grace
Had stirred my own ancestral range.

No oath was sworn, no bond was made,
Yet still I walked, and still they led—
And in the hush the field displayed,
I heard the names I’d left for dead.

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