Poem a day, poem 3

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Albert Goldbarth


"...miles to go before I sleep," says Frost,
as if at last, at night,
the eyes shut, and the mind shuts,
and the journey halts. Of course

that's wrong. All day and into the dusklight
at this flyway stop, the waterfowl
--as plump as pillows, some of them; and other
small and sleek-- have settled, abob

in the wash of the river; and here,
by the hundred, they've tucked their heads
inside a wing: inside that dark
and private sky. The outward flying is done

for now, and the inward flying begins.
All one, to the odometer.

from New Letters