I’m sitting in a patch of sunlight, watching a war from my window in the garden room. It must have begun in the middle of the night because I awakened briefly to the cries of outrage coming from the pond. “It’s Spring,” I whispered to Jim.
And it is. No matter that the thermometer ihas trouble creeping into the fifties; no matter that another snowstorm is forecast for Friday night. There are pansies at my front door and on the patio. Daffodils are up, and I’d like to say tulips, but the deer feasted on them the other night and I have only dim hopes that they’ll bloom next month.
But the war.
Every year it’s the same. Days before April, there’s a vast scramble for housing accommodations. Our resident pair of geese must fight off newcomers who feel that our pond might be a worthy place to raise their young.
A pair lands in the center of the pond. And once he notices, our male skims across the water at a frightening speed. He stops short just before he slams into the intruder. There’s a great flapping of wings, a dust up of feathers, and both rise up into the air.
They retreat then, to think things over. Our female, smoothing down her beige breast, stops to take a few nips at the green grass. The other female perches at the far end of the pond, wondering, I guess, where they’ll go next.
She and her mate are tired of the battle. They see that our male has great determination. And so after about twelve hours, they circle the pond and take off, maybe to a neighboring pond.
Our goose looks so proud of himself, so delighted with his power. He and his lady march up to the window. Certainly they deserve a midmorning breakfast. I run to pour it outside in a golden stream.
And maybe things will be quiet enough for me to finish my writing goal of two pages now.