Geese

While I waited for the library to open a young woman commented, “It’s been a long time since the sun felt this warm in the morning.” I had noticed the same phenomenon. The top my sneakers absorbed the solar heat and the warmth was oozed over my toes. Looking up and down the street there wasn’t a snow bank in sight. Could it really be here?

Yards are a mess this time of year. Littered with twigs and branches the grass is flat, matted against the earth like locks of hair after a hard night’s sleep. Mole burrows zigzag the landscape leaving the turf as chewed up as Lambeau Field the day after Thanksgiving. Dad planned to pick up some of the debris, but I had my sight set on a hike around Moreau. He dropped the rake, grabbed a Snicker bar, because he never hikes without a snack, and we headed to the lake.
Like yesterday’s dirty laundry remnants of heavy snow storms were scattered about the woods on the north side of the hemlocks, in little ravines and strangely on the paved roads that wander through the vacant campsites with picnic tables propped against the trees. This keeps the snow from accumulating on the table tops, saturating the wood, warping the surface and ultimately spilling the beans which ruins the camper’s picnic. My theory about the snow on the roads is that the earth – the rich damp soil and packed leaves is warmer than tar and asphalt, which speaks against man-made global warming and offers a solution to the dilemma - pave over the northern climes - but I’m not going there.

As we approached the bridge the sound of migrating geese filled the sky. (No, they weren’t speaking Spanish.) Five large formations appeared over the hill coming in low over the frozen lake. One lead goose zeroed in on the open water of the shallow feeder pond. Dad and I walked the narrow isthmus between the two bodies of water and watched the geese circle for a landing. The insistent honking intensified as the formations grew tighter over the small pond. And then they plunged into the water. Where is my digital SLR with the telephoto lens? Oh yeah, I don’t own one. Settling on their icy cold tarmac their engines quieted to an occasional resonant sound.

Since they were on the far side of the pond I could not determine what they were doing, but there was a lot of splashing. The activity reminded me of the whales off Maui, puffs of water shooting skyward, wings and white asses floating above the dark water replaced pectoral fins and tails.

I’m suppose to be writing a book and it is not going very well. Trying too hard I think. But I am beginning to believe I am suppose to be writing something else.