“Red skies at warning, sailors take warning.”

This morning, the sky was a luminescent orange, glowing from the eastern horizon as low-hanging clouds striped across the sky. Wispy tendrils stretched toward one another and, from the west, storms crept over the mountains.

Turbulence ahead. Even through the eastern horizon manifested beauty, to my left bloomed trouble.

Life is happening. And I knew that the storms were approaching. They had been on my radar for some time. And I do my best to embrace and ride out the white-horsehead cresting waves, bend my head into the rain as I march through the showers. I sometimes can even do this cheerfully.

But today, I just saw swathes of thick green on Wunderground’s radar, a massive amoebic parasite that is going to hover over my home for at least the next three days.

And that’s just the beginning.

I was walking in the neighborhood on the hill above my house, feeling slightly grumpy as the dogs misbehaved and tried to pull in opposite directions. A lady driving an SUV pulled over. Complimented me on my dogs. And then made sure to know that I was expected to pick up their droppings.

Um….thank you?

Note. I actually agree with her concern and she was really nice about it….but still.

Grumble, rumble, mumble snort.

It’s been a while since I had walked my dogs in that neighborhood, resulting in their need to sniff every blade of grass, every disorderly leaf, and every bush or obstacle or free standing upright thing that could possibly be a dog’s social media post (ha! I stole that allusion from a poet). I just wanted to walk. Get my thoughts in order so I could come home and tackle the day’s chores and build some lessons for next school year and continue to clean the house.

Oh! And write!

At the neighborhood’s border is a farmer’s field bursting with half-grown hay. As I was entering into the final half mile of the walk, I walked along the field’s border, still grumbling to myself while carrying my plastic grocery bag containing two knotted bags of my dogs’ gifts to the world. In my ears, Tori Amos was mourning about “these little earthquakes” and how difficult life was. And I was just yeah! That’s right! Life’s hard!!

My big dog, Figgis, started alerting. Hanging back, his focus on the hay field, the muscles along his back tense. Leia, my other dog, noticed Figgy’s attention and her ears perked forward as she, too, slowed down, dragging my pace. Now even more grumpy with a hint of petulance, I jerked the leashes and snapped their names to get their attention.

The tall grass in the field swayed and at the edges, right where the neighborhood’s manicured, golf-lawns touched the hay field, Canadian geese waddled out of the field. Behind the initial pair, only their crooked heads visible, was a small flock of about another six or so geese, all of whom were honking.

But the grass shimmied too much for such a small flock. And that’s when the goslings poured out. Mature enough to have lost the distinctive gold-brown fluff, their muted brown bodies were egg-shaped from which sprouted their candy-cane neck-heads. The goslings dashed after their calling parents, and the stretched out their tiny, vestigial triangle web-wings as they sprinted toward the lake. At the lead of the gosling flock was a solitary parent, I like to imagine maybe a protective aunt, who lead or tried to lead or just ran with the wild pack of goslings who abandoned their parents for the early lunch waiting for them along the banks of the lake.

A pair of adults hung back. Calling. Staring at the field that seemed to have stilled. And then, the grass waved again and one last gosling ran out, its neck stretched and mouth agape. For a moment, I thought maybe it was limping, hence why it was the last. But, no, once it caught sight of its nest-mates, it stretched out its nubby wings and waddle-dashed toward the lake, its perfect legs spinning like awkward, perfect pinwheels.

Tori Amos kept keening about the pain in her life. And I could feel it. Understand it. Empathize.

But I double clicked the button my earbuds (yes, wired. I’m old school) and forwarded to the next song. Folksy guitar, a burst of alto strings, a major key. And the Avett Brothers chortled about someone or something.

I don’t know. I was still watching the goslings flock toward the lake while the parents ambled behind, gossiping amongst themselves. Maybe they were trash-talking the groundhogs. Or chatting about the patient aunt leading the chubby gosling flock to the water. I like to think that they were watching the goldfinches flicking off the grass as they pecked at the tall grasses’ bursting seedheads.

Were the adults jealous of the songbirds’ nimbleness? Or were they remarking on their contentment with their lot?

By the time I left the field behind and returned to the main road, rain drops had started to smatter down. The occasional big plop of a single drop of rain that burst against my forehead or snuck down the back of my shirt, giving me a quick chill.

My skin would shiver for a second. And with the next step, I found my pace once more.