An Ode to October in Nebraska


Ah, the familiar sounds of Autumn:

the insistent honk of the geese overhead, hurrying south before the snows fly;

the gentle whisper of leaves as they reluctantly surrender their stubborn grip on branches overhead and fall, twirling and skipping on the breeze, to earth, to softly crackle underfoot;

the crisp, sweet crunch of the bite into an apple, freshly picked;

and the plaintive, echoing cry of the mediocre football team, as if from loons on a lake, "We still control our own destiny, we still control our own destiny, we still control our own destiny."