After last night’s rain and today’s warm humidity, the farm smells of wet cedar and forest and goldenrod –
both of death and of the rut –
as if Pan and his Nymphs passed though in the night.
A warm and wet September forest reminds me of backseat romances, and haystacks, and pine needles.
There is a tinge of yellow in the canopy that was not there last week. And the closer to the ground the plant is, the more yellow it has become.
The old timers say that because of the drought, the fall colors will happen fast and without much pizzazz this year. They say the leaves are already dying. Younger observers say the same thing, that they read it online.
The wind moves through the canopy, and water falls from the high leaves like a light passing shower.
Tap dancing, here, and there. Marco! Polo!
Thirty years ago 2 geese made our farm their spring and fall layover – a month-long resting place between wherever they go to further north in the spring, and when they pass going south in the fall.
The flock, now about 60 strong, fly over me, whooshing just above the trees, on their way to the back pond.
I like that we are a layover in a great seasonal migration.
Sure, it’s only about 60 geese who stop and visit, but they’re still family nevertheless.