Out of the clouds I hear a faint bark, as of a faraway dog. It is strange how the world cocks its ear to that sound, wondering. Soon it is louder: the honk of geese, invisible, but coming on.

The flock emerges from the low clouds, a tattered banner of birds, dipping and rising, blown up and blown down, blown together and blown apart, but advancing, the wind wrestling lovingly with each winnowing wing. When the flock is a blur in the far sky I hear the last honk, sounding taps for summer.

It is warm behind the driftwood now, for the wind has gone with the geese. So would I — if I were the wind.
- Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac

. . .

There are some who can live without goose music, without wild things and wild places,  and some who can't. 

. . .

The page above is from the first draft of the new book I’m working on:

Meditations On Nature: The Beauty Of Wild Places