Something told the wild geese 
It was time to go. 
Though the fields lay golden 
something whispered-"snow." 
Leaves were green and stirring, 
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
something cautioned-"frost."
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild beast stiffened
at remembered ice.
Something gold the wild geese
It was time to fly-
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.
 
- Rachel Field