With Labor Day gone and done, all of the white shoes, white shorts, white capris, white belt and purse all tucked away in storage until next Memorial day when it’s totally legal to retrieve and wear once again. The signs of autumn creep softly in on the wings of the wild goose.
The black birds begin to flock up as the meadowlark and red-winged blackbird take their leave under the shadow of the wild goose scurrying to the next bare barley field to glean loose grains left behind by the farmer’s combine.
Which way the wild goose flies can only be directed by the confusing winds of late August and early September. Winds that blow from the south one minute and the north the next, causing temperatures to rise and fall in utter confusion. The cacophony of their honking overhead only makes us work faster knowing old man winter could sing as early as he wants without anyone’s permission.
There are many vegetables and fruits to be harvested before the killing frost. The empty canning jars beckon, knowing that Grandma Betty’s canned cinnamon apples will bring nostalgic delight come Thanksgiving time— all warm and familiar to my tongue.
Oh wild goose on the wing, will you head north or south today? Will your music carry me back to my childhood on Lake Michigan, way up north? Will my heart ever forgive the change of the seasons that cause me such grief? Can I find peace and joy in the seasons of my life as blessed and unending as they may seem?
Sometimes the wild geese fly so close overhead I can hear the flapping of their wings as they change positions in their reformation.
Perhaps a metaphor for life? Perhaps a gentle reminder to relinquish my position of assumed control and to allow the Lord to lead in my own reformation.
Saddle up Missy, we’ve got a trail to blaze!
Love you!
Diane
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Diane C. Whitlock, Author 