We gather up a few thin blades of meadow grass and call them the meadow, when the meadow itself rolls off to horizons that escape our view.

I don’t want to listen to the myriad chorus of voices that call me to various horizons, regardless of how pristine those horizons might be. Rather, I would much prefer to listen for the voice that created the horizons.

To look beyond our horizons is to acknowledge that we’ve hemmed ourselves in by creating them in the first place.

It is the geese plying the graying skies of autumn in floating V-formations on a rendezvous with southern horizons that gives me the greatest pause. For my life is rarely raised to the calls of life on the wing that beg me to rise up and lay hold of distant horizons in search of a season being birthed out of the one now dying. For to stay here in a season now expired is to die along with it, and despite the fact that I had died many times, I must never forget that I can still fly.