We are on the cusp between seasons, from Autumn to Winter. In Nebraska, we have entered the snow and cold, with an occasional rain season. Here, the wind blows constantly, sometimes gently and other times with gusts from the sudden heaves of breath that the sky exhales as it sighs.

I wonder, is Father Sky frustrated with us?
When his breath of air whooshes over the landscape, the dry white powder swirls up into snow devils, sweeping through the fields of stubble and dried weeds. 
Is Father Sky disappointed in us?

We have dumped too much into the atmosphere, from plastic nanoparticles to humongous pieces of metallic space trash. I wonder if all the detritus left in the sky are like irritating bugs whirling about with no purpose but to be swatted away?

But then I see the miracles of Father Sky’s breath.
He blows. Brushing the pastures off and shaking pollen from the cedars and pine forest.

His wind carries not only the pollen of the forest and wild grasses but the life itself of the land. I watch the glistening reflective light off spider threads—thousands of them in flight above my head and into the valley beyond. The tiny arachnids are invisible unless the light is just right.

My ears perk up now to the familiar sign of the change in weather. Pulling back my fleece hat, I catch the faint sound of a calling. Snow geese are beginning to come. They, too, are riding on Father Sky’s breath. He blows harder up there; the lead goose honks loudly, and the others reply. Their white V-formation is faint against the gray cirrus clouds.

Multiple vapor trails from the morning departure flights out of Denver, Rapid City, Salt Lake City, and more crisscross the blue sky. Father Sky inhales, and the contour trails gently move in unison, making fattened puffy wave patterns.