“I dropped my hoe and ran into the house and started to write this poem, 'End of Summer.’ It began as a celebration of wild geese. Eventually the geese flew out of the poem, but I like to think they left behind the sound of their beating wings.”

“One foggy night I was walking the dogs down the lane and heard the geese, very close overhead, calling, calling, their marvellous strange cry, as they flew by. I think that is what our own best prayer must sound like when we send it up to heaven.”

“Writing poems is my way of celebrating with the world that I have not committed suicide the evening before.”

“If you feel the urge, don't be afraid to go on a wild goose chase. What do you think wild geese are for anyway?”

“Out of the clouds I hear a faint bark, as of a faraway dog. It is strange how the world cocks its ear to that sound, wondering. Soon it is louder: the honk of geese, invisible, but coming on.The flock emerges from the low clouds, a tattered banner of birds, dipping and rising, blown up and blown down, blown together and blown apart, but advancing, the wind wrestling lovingly with each winnowing wing. When the flock is a blur in the far sky I hear the last honk, sounding taps for summer.It is warm behind the driftwood now, for the wind has gone with the geese. So would I--if I were the wind.”

“Sometimes I think my writing sounds like I walked out of the room and left the typewriter running.”