Mom and I stand still with our heads bent all the way back, searching for the forms of long-winged geese flying overhead. We have heard them talking to each other in that noisy, disorganized honk-talk of theirs, and we've longed to see the group of them strung out in a wavering V. One of us spots them and our arm goes out, "There they are....", our voice falling off. It is such a beautiful sight, and yet they are leaving us. High aloft, they are excited and busy with their own lives, following their inner guidance, and here we are, feet planted on this old gravel road, beside the swamp with the goats grazing the last great grass of the year. We are not going anywhere really, only a half mile back to our little yellow house, where the season will pass and the next one will come, and then the next one, and then perhaps we will hear them again.
This year it is all the more poignant, as my son will be one of those flying birds soon enough. Even now, he's preparing his airplaine, N3538F, and the restlessness and excitement of the journey ahead is building. He will lift off, following his Inner Guidance, to go south to Bolivia, and he will be with a little group of other "birds." Their lives will not be composed of resting and feeding and waiting for a new nesting season, however. Their hands and minds will be occupied and they will feel the ache of tiredness.
I stand here, quietly looking up into the sky, watching the call of nature on the wild geese, watching the wobbling of their wings and listening to their conversations. "Come back again," I cry from inside, "My son, come back next year....."