Wild Geese

“Wild geese fly south, creaking like anguished hinges; along the riverbank the candles of the sumacs burn dull red. It's the first week of October. Season of woolen garments taken out of mothballs; of nocturnal mists and dew and slippery front steps, and late-blooming slugs; of snapdragons having one last fling; of those frilly ornamental pink-and-purple cabbages that never used to exist, but are all over everywhere now.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

These wild geese are not flying south quite yet. We saw them spending a relaxing afternoon bobbing about on Whetstone Lake in Farmington, Nova Scotia. We counted about 17 altogether.