Some writing days are more writerly than others. I spent yesterday at my desk, watching out the window, and reminding myself to write every few minutes, a sentence here, a sentence there. I had other things on my mind. So many things that I forgot to turn the oven on—dinner was late, very late. (Surprising to open that oven door expecting a wonderful dark roast beef with juices running, and seeing instead a piece of meat exactly in the same condition it had been in the refrigerator two hours before.)
Ah, but it was such a wonderful day. It began earlier than usual. Jim heard them first. “Wake up and listen,” he said.
And there it was, that unmistakable sound of the geese calling back and forth to each other. From the bedroom window, I watched them circle the pond and come in, landing the way the old SSTs used to do, leaving a beautiful wake behind them. More than two came this year, there were three pairs. “Plenty of room,” I told Jim. “And I have plenty of cracked corn and sunflower seeds waiting for them.”
I could see how hungry they were, they snapped up pieces of grass along the water’s edge; they were irritable, as well, pecking at each other. They were too skittish to come to my window for the breakfast I put out for them—even the pair who ate there every morning this summer and complained bitterly when I took my time tossing out their feed. But the nuthatches and black capped chickadees were delighted to see those sunflower seeds. They swooped down for a quick bite. The squirrels sat on top of the pile, cheeks filled. It will take a few days for the geese to get up their courage to come close, but once they do, they’ll hum at me as they scarf down their meals.
Dark comes early these days, and eventually it was too late to see the geese floating along, their hunger satisfied. I sit there wondering where they’ve been, flying high, what they’ve seen. And in a sudden burst of energy, and joy at this day, I managed to write several pages. It’s amazing how the small things in life make such a difference.