Something told the wild geese
It was time to go
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered "snow."
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned "frost."
All the sagging orchard
Steamed with amber spice
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly
Summer sun was on their wings
Winter in their cry!
Rachel Lyman Field
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