Canada Geese flew over last night. I was out taking the laundry off the line, when I heard them. Loud. I started looking around. It sounded like they were right behind me. Then I looked up. They were flying directly over my head, so low to the ground that I could have hit them with a stone, if I had had a stone. And if I'd had the inclination to throw it at them. Which I didn't. They're too beautiful. There were nine of them in a perfect V formation. It looked just like all of the drawings and paintings I've ever seen of geese flying over head. This is one time when the illustrators got it spot on. They flew over and disappeared beyond the trees on the north side of the house. Don't know why they were heading north. I'd have figured they'd be getting ready to think about heading south. But what do I know? 
And seeing them put me in mind of Autumn, which is my favorite time of year. Autumn has an certain melancholy air to it that appeals to me. Autumn bespeaks of endings. The year is winding down. All of the critters are frantically stuffing the last nuts and whatnot into their larders. I swap the screens for the storm windows, have the furnace serviced, put the fans away. Then comes the mulching of the leaves, and carting them off to the brush pile in the back corner of the field. We break out the sweaters and the air grows crisp. The light takes on a different look to it, and I grow more pensive than usual. Autumn whispers to me of things I haven't yet done, goals unreached, dreams unfulfilled, and life winding down toward the dead of winter. You're thinking now that I'm going to talk of being depressed, but no. Autumn's sad air doesn't depress me. It energizes me and spurs me on to do more, to work faster, to try even harder. Because winter's not here yet. While there's still time for the chipmunks to get a few more seeds into their pantry, there's still time for me to write another chapter of my next book. But it's not autumn yet. We've just had the first inkling that it's coming, and I still have to get the first book published.
And seeing them put me in mind of Autumn, which is my favorite time of year. Autumn has an certain melancholy air to it that appeals to me. Autumn bespeaks of endings. The year is winding down. All of the critters are frantically stuffing the last nuts and whatnot into their larders. I swap the screens for the storm windows, have the furnace serviced, put the fans away. Then comes the mulching of the leaves, and carting them off to the brush pile in the back corner of the field. We break out the sweaters and the air grows crisp. The light takes on a different look to it, and I grow more pensive than usual. Autumn whispers to me of things I haven't yet done, goals unreached, dreams unfulfilled, and life winding down toward the dead of winter. You're thinking now that I'm going to talk of being depressed, but no. Autumn's sad air doesn't depress me. It energizes me and spurs me on to do more, to work faster, to try even harder. Because winter's not here yet. While there's still time for the chipmunks to get a few more seeds into their pantry, there's still time for me to write another chapter of my next book. But it's not autumn yet. We've just had the first inkling that it's coming, and I still have to get the first book published.
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