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siorially to indulge in the luxury of napping with my cat and dog. At one point. 1 looked up from sleeping, through the sliding glass doors of my bedroom, which offer me a spectacular view of the pastures, woods, mountains, and the pond.
It was so quiet that 1 was startled to see what was probably our entire resident flock of 100 geese walking in a slow, silent parade from one end to the other of the huge, oblong pond below my house. As I drifted in and out of sleep, the geese kept coming, just a few abreast, for what seemed like hours. No honking, no noisy Happing. Just walking as if in a funeral march:
In my sleep-numbed state, I thought of the bison that crossed the plains in herds numbering in the millions. taking days or weeks to pass. As I drifted in and out of sleep, with the geese still slowly walking past, it seemed as if they, too, took days to pass.
When the geese got to the other end, the leaders turned around and started walking back, with the others following in line. Why had they taken this long walk? If they were looking for food, shelter, or open water, why not fly or send a scout to fly to the other end of the pond and report back? I doubt I’ll ever know.
Being a Southerner, what I do know is that winter is not my favorite season. As winter drags on this year, I’ll yearn for the heat and humidity, and for the nightly chorus that lulls me to sleep so well: the steady drone of crickets and chorus frogs; the whir of cicadas rising in intensity, then falling to a low hum; the occasional baritone call of male bullfrogs; and, when the summer night occasionally does become still, the haunting song of the lone mockingbird.
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