I just went to dinner. And as I left, and began to stroll down the hill, I heard the goose again. Last night, when I walked through the dark and cold to breathe, I heard him. When my cell phone rang, he protested, but I could not see him. Nor could I tell if there were more than one. But just now, when I heard that squawk, I turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of that elusive bird. And I saw him. Just one. One lonely goose, swimming near the edge of the pond, hoarsely calling his throaty complaint. Such a familiar sound. But I've never before been so firmly struck by how lonely a goose's call sounds. How tired, and sad, how pleading, yet with very little hope. One little bird - or at least, he looked small from a distance - floating by himself across an immense slatey pond, pushed and chilled by the wind, with no other goose in sight.
How pitiful to be a goose alone! Surrounded by grey water and sky and trees. I hope he's not as lonely as he appears to be.
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