A Gift of Geese

At morning, before the sun has risen and not even the tallest peaks of the mountains to the west of us glitter with the first amber and violet rays of morning, Duncan and I are out in The Run, trudging through snow that refuses to melt despite our warm weather. Now that the geese have reclaimed all the wide open spaces around us--the golf course and the park where we walk--we are rarely alone in the morning silence. They chatter softly and then as more of them pull the short stump of their heads from beneath the warmth of a wing the talk grows louder and more hurried, like old women making afternoon plans. They climb to their feet and leave the melted ovals where they've roosted all night. As we plod along, diving into the snow, craning our necks to spot the squirrels huddled in the nudity of the cottonwoods, the geese lunge forward into an awkward run flapping their heavy wings until the air forgives them and grants them passage pulling them aloft. They circle the course and rise above the tallest trees to a point higher than the morning shadows and are able to coax the first rays of the sun awake. They capture the light on their bellies, these black, feathery oddities which move so selfishly and arrogantly through the world, thrusting the rising glory of the morning earthward, shining brilliantly as they sing unabashedly overhead, flying faster than the sun and giving, if only briefly, something back to the world, something beyond words and music, something somehow greater than the witnessing.


*Photo courtesy of George Bruckner. His amazing portfolio can be seen here. Please visit.