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The geese cross the scarlet expanse of heaven.  Not a telephone line bars their way as they fly in formation, a single acute edge flying far, so far across the sunset sky.  The plants of the plains prick my hands and feet as I lay back, but the chill is sweet to me.  Where are those geese going?  Are they headed to their faraway nests, their brief havens of respite?  Or are they searching for a place we can’t even imagine, tirelessly sifting through an endless number of skies?