Before I stepped into work this morning a flock of geese flew overhead.
I couldn't see them.
At first, I thought one of the homes nearby was hosting an Iditarod team. I could see that sound: 20 dogs barking happily while their owner, bundled up against the crisp autumn air, poured food into one massive dish.
But I realized, as I was gripping the cold door handle, that they were geese.
I wanted to see them. There's something about that fluid V they form, something about the way their instincts drive them to work together, something about the relentless flight to a better, more hospitable place. It's only a momentary feeling, a slight welling up inside, that goes away quickly. I wanted to feel it.
I looked in every direction. I think I was closest to them when I was facing West. But there was a huge stand of trees in the way.
The icegrey sky never gave them up. And it was getting cold, standing there in my t-shirt and green corduroys.
