Songs fill the sky as geese move through the atmosphere, their melancholy cries lamenting the coming of winter as they leave their summer ponds. They form in the sky an arrow pointing in the direction of their journey to warmer regions. They move in groups, some so large they cover half the sky, clouds of wings and long necks. I see them though the empty boughs, the boughs I have watched thin in a matter of weeks; the summer's bounty falling to the ground to dry up sapless, and be buried with snow. The trees say nothing as a gentle breeze moves through, no quiet rustling---only their naked bones scrape against each other when the wind is fierce and blowing snow to bury these standing skeletons, to turn them into giant icicles by morning.