Something told the wild geese

Queen Shenaynay

Sixty. That's the temperature here. SIXTY! It's a miracle.

The heat has hovered around one hundred here for almost five months. We were at the verge of succumbing to that strange heat malaise that southwesterners know so well -- a drippy, drowsy churlishness that comes and goes without warning.

And then! --we awoke this morning to a glorious zing of chill. We cranked open the windows and put our biggest teapot over the warming candle.

Spuddy Buddy, while wrestling a long sleeve shirt from the back of the closet, asked with much enthusiasm, "Is it going to SNOW?" Amazing how cold 60 degrees can feel to a barbequed Texan.

I predict there will be pumpkins perched on the porch within 36 hours. And that Great Scot will whisper the word chili! in my ear shortly thereafter.

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Something Told the Wild Geese

Something told the wild geese

It was time to go.

Though the fields lay golden

Something whispered, -- "Snow."

Leaves were green and stirring,

Berries, luster-glossed,

But beneath warm feathers

Something cautioned, -- "Frost."

All the sagging orchards

Steamed with amber spice,

But each wild breast stiffened

At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese

It was time to fly, --

Summer sun was on their wings,

Winter in their cry.

-- Rachel Field