Two mornings before the 2013 solstice and it is bitterly cold. Just enough white snow dots the ground to reflect the last full moon of the year. The only compensation is there is very little wind. I think that I am the only warmblooded entity that is awake until...
...my perfect peacefulness is interrupted. My concentration broken. They are not a gaggle. Even calling them a gang sounds too tame. They are a league of rabble rousers who egg each other on in the early gray morning before the truth of light. They honk out epithets that make the sky blush pink. They cajole and push rudely filling the quiet morning air like a distant asynchronous brass band. Ever so slowly the noise grows and their energy builds until it explodes into the slap of wings against water and the wush of wing and air - a climax. They depart for the farmers fields to scavenge more humbly for winters leavings with the sun chasing their tails. Behind is left a mirrored silver surface with white down scattered like after-party confetti everywhere. Such a mess! Yet, I feel tenderness for them like a mother does her prodigal children, and I somehow wish I was brave enough to join.
Now the morning is hushed once again ever so briefly as the sun, like a waking, virtuous prostitute, smudges rouge across the horizon rubbing her face in innocent seduction and stretching out her golden arms. The colors of petals and blood grow and wane as my coffee cools. The silhouettes of leafless trees front like a black lace curtain before a show.
But this second act is over all too soon as a shiny golden light dresses the woods in soft grays and rust browns. Some of the geese are quietly returning, their breasts bright white orbs catching the sun's rays. They float silently and effortlessly like ghosts of their previous selves toward my dock. But this time they are attended by the little buffleheads. The smaller ducks glide in front and lead the armada as if they were small tugboats or royal escorts.
Then, due to a clamorous caw, I notice three large crows high in the trees above me. They begin their concert, Act III, as they sit like sentinels in the trees along the river's edge claiming this territory in outrageous song. My coffee is now cold and I have seen this act before so many times that I return to the warmth of the kitchen for my second cup.
