The care home in which Mom lives sits on property adjoined on two sides by corn fields.
Empty of tall green stalks now, light tan with only dry husks lying about, the fields rather disappear from thought.
But not from flocks of migrating geese.
Stepping out of the rental car, stiff from three hours of driving, I search the late afternoon overcast skies for sight of the geese I can hear.
It takes a moment to work out the mystery.
The geese are not flying.
They have broken their journey, certainly Vs and Vs of them by the sound, to forage for corn kernels left behind during autumn harvesting.