7.54 p.m. Sunday.

I just stepped outdoors to supervise Auggie in his front-yard activities.

The weather is bitterly, ugly cold.

But the lights on my house and on the gables and porches of my neighbors brighten the evening, as does the shallow layer of snow that did not melt today.

The world seems calm, but it’s not.

And then I hear, from high above, the sounds of geese.  Many geese.  And I look up to see, through the barren oak and sugar maple trees, more than three dozen geese flying southwest, honking noisily high in the sky, their V formation an unmistakable sign that they are migrating. Late, I should say, but better late than never?

And the sight of the geese, and the bitter calm of the evening, and the warm decorative lights and their gentle glow — all join together to remind me that one day heaven touched earth, and for a moment this land was at peace.


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