This Moment: November 12, 2012 6:52 A.M.

The porch chime clangs loudly. The full moon is shrouded in thick clouds. Shadows finger crawl cross my windows. Wind is a low rumble like voices heard through walls. Shadows fade as light slowly emerges from behind the mountains. The storm and it's snows will soon arrive, its coming has been announced, and will be greeted like an uninvited guest to a private dinner party. The dark days are here. I feel their cold grip on the back of my neck. Gunfire in the distance, probably near the lake's shoreline where wild geese bed down in the marsh grass. The small dog jumps to attention, but soon circles himself back into the comforter. I wonder why the geese wait so long to fly south for the winter months. It will not be long before the ground will freeze and the lake made of salt will glisten like crystal held to the light. The wind has ceased. The chimes sway gently in a leftover breeze, their music of metal on metal a reminder of entering the darkness of a Buddhist temple, the gong's deep voice reverberating along the wooden walls and across the golden surface of the Buddha. In the morning light, as the darkness takes its leave, I am drawn to a dream, not my own, of a ghost train train filled with the souls of my ancestors bearing down nonexistent tracks behind my home. I wonder at the meaning of this, and wish I could ask them the way forward. The chimes begin again. The old dog breathes heavily on her pillow. The ground, its cache of yellow orange leaves will be hidden away under a thick cover of white in a matter of hours. I hear geese call to each other as they pass over my house and I cannot keep myself from smiling, knowing they will find their way home safe.

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