When geese fly.

Fall is in the air. It came a little late this year, creeping in with isolated days of frost, squeezed between the last warm rays of Indian Summer. But now leaves lay in thick heaping piles over the gardens in my neighbor's yard, where they will stay, protecting her annuals from jack frost's bite until spring thaw. Gloves are donned on each trip between house and car and my favorite hat now resides a top my head as I head into work each morning, leaving its telltale ridged line across my forehead.

Fall is magical for me, in a way no other season is. The smell of wood fire on the air, the crisp bite of a blustery day on my nose and cheeks leaving kisses of pink in place of summers fading freckles. I listen to Van Morrison singing of an October Moondance, and wait for the day when I will spin in someone's arms to that song.

Things become quieter in autumn, the muffled laughter of children seeps from under doorways and through warmly lit windows instead of in sunshine bursts of sprinkler induced screams. Bundled people softly make their way from here to there, the coldness not yet so harsh to keep them inside. And there are the geese.

I walked out my door Saturday morning to a chorus of Canadian flyers, their wings beating against the clear blue sky. My eyes found them 500 strong at least, and arranged in south-facing arrows. Cluster after pointed cluster pushed past the ridge of my house. I could hardly believe their numbers, and the calling sounds from one goose to the next, echoed off the houses and down my car-lined street. I must have stood there for a full five minutes, shivering in a t-shirt with my laundry bag slung over one shoulder. It was captivating. I watched until only the stragglers were left. As they too finally passed, their calls faded into the distance, and I walked around the corner to the laundry house, once again, marvelling at a beauty no human could create.