I watched them soar over the mountain. Their approach filled with longing. Their bodies skimmed the surface of the glass lake without touching. Voices totally silent now. Then their legs descended and they knew migration’s rest. I sat and pondered the morning’s reading as they floated. Rilke writes of the Sacred/Divine/God calling us “beyond the limits of our longing.” The bidding to “just keep going.” But more than calling, the Sacred carries us like migrating wings. The last line reads, “Take my hand.” I pondered how the geese so close to rest and yet they skimmed the surface delaying the longing’s end for a few moments more. Perhaps to savor the gentle hand holding them and bidding them beyond the limits of their longing. That I too may not rush or cling to outcomes, rather, skim the surface and savor the cradling hands.