Sitting still in the middle of the field. One tree South of me making a racket, letting the world know that there’s a breeze blowing. A million leaves flapping in unison. The grasses and flowers are going to seed, covered in dew, sparkling and billowing. What few clouds move quickly along and the sun shines down. Behind me a sudden cascade of dried leaves, birdsong and flight. A cricket, a steady and sustained chirping. The leaves falling herald the breeze, which is seen and heard before you feel it. A small flock of finches dip and veer, chirps and cheeps, whistles and trills. Alight briefly on the branches and then they’re gone. Down low in the grasses and seedstalks. A goose passes overhead, alone, calling out.