Geese

I first heard the geese on a warm October evening, their calls piercing the stillness as I looked toward the water. I felt their wings flapping above me, pushing through the air, strong bodies cast in golden light.

When they flew from their v-formation in a synchronous glide across Lake Miriam, it was as if they’d always been here, their calls reverberating like a murmuring song. 

I wished I could share this moment, the encounter causing me to sift through every possible poem or song I knew delighting in these birds. In The Sound of Music, there are “Geese that fly with the moon on their wings.” 

And a line in Mary Oliver’s poem: “the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–over and over announcing your place in the family of things.” 

When we gathered in the gazebo to sing in the chilly mornings, we paused in wonder when the geese suddenly joined, their entrance flawless. How many times did I watch the dance of geese descend and ascend, descend and ascend, a moment of theatre on an endless stage: the lake, a kind of looking glass, and the geese, angels incarnate. 

My bedroom had six windows overlooking the lake, capturing seasonal time like a precious frame. I imagined the poets and writers of our past writing by a lake, like this one, witnessing these travelers enough to understand their grace and beauty in a context transcending suburban ponds.

By the beginning of December, the lake had frozen over, and the geese left. I felt the quiet emptiness of their departure, the stillness echoing as I prepared for my own migration south.

Now my eyes are open, looking for what else I have not been curious enough to see.