It's that time of year

 Went out to watch the robins, and suddenly,  a way off down over the hill and the trees, I heard geese, rowing north again.   The sound that makes you forget that your feet are cold,  the door is open, and you need to keep breathing.  

I read this aloud.  Like most  poems, it's  meant to be heard, too.

Wild Geese--Robert P. Tristam Coffin

Beauty is coming North again

Slanting eager as the rain;

With necks like arrows on a bow

Across the sky the wild geese go.

Beauty is coming moulded by

High winds of the upper sky

Into shapes that burn to be

In a patterned symmetry.

Loveliness comes like a host

Of lean ships headed for a coast,

Every sail and every keel

Pointed at a common weal.

Comeliness in company,

Every wing where it should be,

Their feathers are communal things.

They help each other with their wings.