Honkers on a fall morn

In the cool brisk morning

scented with the smell of a distant fire

the sun blood red in the sky

they came

stretched across the sky

pointing unfailingly south

arrow like

and noisily honking

the first flock of geese

harbingers of fall

infallible prophets

that things are about to change

life goes on

we futilely seek to hang on

to those last vestiges of youth

to ways old

and familiar

we would sit and wallow in the pastures 

forever

but the sign is in the skies

we are called

and we must go