Under the Waxing Moon

The Moon is almost... Sullen skies forewarn the frozen shroud. Gale November winds sway bare limbed trees, whistling in chorus with arrows of Geese straining to steer south. The familiar sound of the revolving lead Goose never wavers, but for tonight. A strange howl emanates from the current commander, abandoning the customary bugling, not elongated; like a hound dogs lament, but crisp & short, a howl. Alarm bells ring in the memory recall of my dna...built-in decipher mechanisms fail, all of this happening in split-seconds. What prompted this auditory change? what does this alternate sound signal? As quick as I heard it this twilight fall evening, the Geese passed, the course they were set upon unknown, circumstances they encountered, not of my world, the only sure thing, is wonder. 12/01/17