MIGRATION

We hear them this time year, their honking songs filling the fall air, air that has a bit of a bite to it. Sometimes I can't help myself and I push aside the curtains that hang next to my bed and strain to see them pass over top the house or yard.

The geese honk and call and answer each other and then I begin to wonder. First I wonder why they use up precious energy to chatter back and forth. What are they saying? Are they encouraging one another to keep flapping their wings the way one marathon runner might encourage another.

"You can do it, not much farther now," they might be saying.

Or are they complaining.

"Whose bloody idea was this?"

"What a bunch of lemmings. Georgette heads south and we all follow like lambs to the slaughter."

"What happened to free thinking?"

"I'm going east. I hear the people are nice there," Doris says.

"They've got nothing else to do, why wouldn't they be nice."

Then Doris heads east and all the other geese are quiet for a few moments. Then the honking begins again.

"Idiot," they say. "She'll regret that decision." But perhaps inwardly they all envy her courage but can't admit it.

Why do they go? Are we all just migrating somewhere but our flight path is just less noticeable, but not less remarkable. Does something stir in us that makes us get off the couch to rake the leaves for reasons other than saving the lawn. Maybe when we see the geese flying overhead, practising their alphabet, and we examine our own choices and begin to feel the notion of change or movement wiggle in us. Maybe we walk a different route to work the next day or don some bright coloured fabric and leave the sensible black in the closet. Maybe we part our hair on the opposite side or cut it, changing the style we have coiffed for fifteen years.

Maybe we're more dramatic and stick a "for sale" sign in the front yard or join a gym or read a book or ... write one. Maybe we take a trip and ride a zipline to conquer our fear of heights before being able to conquer something, anything, becomes impossible. Maybe we clean a closet and toss out things that we once thought were precious, but mean nothing to anyone but us and someone will have to throw it out so why not that someone be us.

Maybe we forget why we quit writing or calling our best friend from third grade and dial their number or write a letter. Maybe we ...

It's a gorgeous sunny day after a long bout of rain and dreariness. I had to walk. The leaves floated down; they're too wet to crunch under my feet, but I remember the sound clearly enough. I love the colours of the leaves and their shapes and I am tempted to collect them and make a bouquet.

Then I begin to imagine my own migration. What path will I take to "rest" up for spring? Where will I lie my head and exhale?