Early yesterday morning, before the sweltering heat became oppressive, we dug our Yukon Gold potatoes. Big fat yellow potatoes. Waiting in the soil for us to harvest. They are an early potato and new for us to grow. So I cannot tell if "early" means the beginning of August - or if, in more usual times (if there is such a thing anymore), they would be ready later in the month.
Even earlier in the morning at first light, we heard a flock of Canada Geese fly over. They were in conversation with each other. It is not a summer-sound, but happens when they are becoming restless. The gawky goslings are no longer teenagers. They need to practice with the adults before their long flight south to marshes of the Gulf. How to fly in formation and how to take turns in being the lead goose, who breaks the way through the air and allows the rest of the flock some ease across the miles.
I wonder what they will find this year. The cleanup from the oil spill continues, but the contaminated oil is being dumped into land-fills from New Orleans to Florida. I think of earlier times in my life when the sound of geese practicing for migration was a wondrous and wild sound. No matter the circumstances in my life, I could count on the surety of migrating birds marking the seasons. They were doing so before I was born and I believed they would continue their ancient patterns long after I am gone.
When I would hear them fly over, I would always pause whatever I was doing. I would stand there and listen. Listen for the wildness they represent.
Elizabeth
Nice post! I love potatoes and geese as overhead as long as they don't poop on me (the geese...I don't worry about the potatoes).
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