Sunday night I was burning the last of the brush pile from this summer’s storm. As I sat watching the flames, the air filled with the sound of geese. Maybe a dozen flew over; a couple minutes later, another dozen, then twenty, then six. It went on for a half hour or forty five minutes: a migration in fits and starts. The geese were headed southwest. No doubt it’s time to terrorize golfers and golf courses far to the south of Nebraska.