The first “ Canadas” are always special. Those proud, black heads, banded with that pure white necklace, their grace-filled bodies with tints of black, of browns and grays, all undercoated with whites as bold as the melting snows. Their distinctive, throaty honks, penetrating the foggy mists of our first pre- spring days fills a promise, and stop me in my tracks.
This day, there were only two, flying together, their strong wings working in perfect coordination. There was a casualness in their honks, perhaps a friendly conversation back and forth, maybe a mister goose and his lady, chatting about their day. They flew just over the treetops, not 50 yards from me, but paid me no mind. If they saw me, there was no start in their motion, no change in their direction.
Geese and spring consume some of my earliest memories. As a little kid, I’d walk into flocks of geese, thousands of them, as they massed in the agricultural fields of East Bowdoinham. My brothers and I would move on them, slowly, stealthfully, picking out the guards, moving steadily at them until they lifted off, flying to the next field, or out to the bay. The game was to walk slowly, to see just how close we could get before they jumped.
There was always a spring campout or two, spending an overnight on the shore of Merrymeeting Bay. We’d expect not to sleep, we’d know the constant din of a thousand honks, all night long. It was OK if we didn’t sleep, there was a new spring coming. There would be rest when we got home.
A goose, returning home is such a beautiful sight. Here is a real moment of spring, here is a promise that a new season has come, and warm days will follow.
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