You dream of geese.
The air is crisp, not quite cold, winter hinting at its coming in creeping tendrils, a taste in the air, a chill in the shadows, geese overhead. The skies resonate with their calls, announcements, instructions, directions. When night comes, they will land, and the lack will be a cacophony in the cold, but you're not there yet...
You shiver, and step out of the shade. Reflex, mostly, but the sky is darkening already.
The sun is darkening, not a cloud about, only geese, but there aren't that many.
Their v's scatter, disperse. The calls quiet.
You look up. Some part of your brain, some nagging thing in the back of your mind tells you not to, that this is a bad idea, but you do it anyway.
It's not the sun.
A breeze rustles through the field, and then stills. The dry grass almost sighs, but the silence is like a blanket covering all. In the thickets at the edges, the insects stall, then cut off too.
You stare up at the... it doesn't make sense. It doesn't fit. It shouldn't be there, in the sky, in the winterfall. It shouldn't be among the geese, it doesn't fit, doesn't fit...