I watched a lopsided arrow of nine geese hover above a leafless oak. The massive oak was far larger, more truly there than the tiny clapboard church it grew near. I could see the willows on the far side of the intersection, their fronds fluttered nearly horizontal in dense gusts of wind. In the Mini’s speakers, Rihanna and Eminem sang about being friends with the monster under the bed. An old man wandered in the graveyard across from the church.

The light turned green and the Mini and I accelerated away.

That was Friday. I thought about the geese, the trees, the old man while the WideEyedHousehold cleared and mulched leaves on Saturday. They all wandered around in my head while we did the Fall housecleaning on Sunday. Here it is Monday, and I’m busy at the desk, those geese still hovering in that mental space just above my eyes.

What did I miss about that moment? What was I supposed to see that I did not? I want to go back to campus and wait again at the intersection, but the intersection of space, time, and event, just as I witnessed it, will never again be.

If it was a vision, a set of signs, maybe it means I can’t move forward against the scary large-scale forces pitted against me. That I have to bend with them, submit to them, just hold against them or surely I will die.

Or, it was a moment of calm at the end of two weeks of deadlines and stress. The first time I had a thought that was just for me. Let’s go with that one just so the WideEyedSpouse doesn’t begin to worry about my wits –