The corn fields stood green, not so long ago, in tall, even rows. Now, the stalks are dry and have turned to beige and brown. They lean against each other, helter skelter, as their silk waves in the cool air. Soon they will be mowed down, chopped and tilled into the soil as organic matter, as has been done in adjoining fields.
Those mowed fields appear barren, but there is food enough there for the Canadian geese who come. Their huge conventions take place in the early morning, and again at dusk, beneath steel-gray skies. They eat their fill before taking off for ponds or nests.
They fly amid the clouds, forming deep V formations, honking as they go. They follow their leader, across the same paths, to and fro, every day until it's time for them to move on. Beyond the brilliant leaves they go, across the miles, toward the south.
Perhaps they will come to winter in South Carolina. I hear that they do that, but we've seen them only on our friend's pond in their back yard farmland. The geese are something hearing in our skies. We used to watch them from our rear deck when we lived in New York, but they've not made an appearance in our area. We miss those geese!