The wind that makes music in November corn is in a hurry. The stalks hum, the loose husks whisk skyward in half-playing swirls, and the wind hurries on. A tree tries to argue, bare limbs waving, but there is no detaining the wind.
In June, as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries. No man can ignore all of them.
One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.
