Mulling things on my morning ramble
with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
Some 65 Canada geese--I counted them as the meathead and I circled the north old clay pit--floated eerily silent in the southwest corner of the town pond.
Even when Storm and I passed within maybe 30 yards, they kept silent.
It's the third morning in a row like that.
On Tuesday, I stopped counting at 100. That's a lot of geese for a little body of water, even though the north pit is bigger than the south one. And a lot of geese to float silently.
They looked smaller than the resident geese. Most seasons about seven pairs nest around the town pond, so I have a good handle on the size of our resident geese.
I am pretty sure these are migrators. It reminded of a group of visitors to a new church the way they floated silently as though not to draw attention or do anything out of line.
Another 25 floated on the southwest corner of the south old clay pit.
Three things struck me.
Well, they struck me after I made sure to carefully walk over the frost-coated bridge over the neckdown between the two old clay pits.
One, why the odd numbers? I might have miscounted on the 65, but not on the 25. My guess is that some of the partner pairs were dropped by hunters. These geese acted like they had been hunted.
I have not heard, but I suspect a push of geese arrived this week.
Second, why were both groups in southwest corners? It was nearly flat calm this morning, so I don't think it was the wind. But there was skim ice in patches around the east side of both clay pits, so maybe that was it.
Third, why didn't the groups join into one large group? Are they the geese equivalent of Baptists or Anabaptists who splinter into smaller sects over something like the length of men's hair or black bumpers?
Brother, maybe you have to be from my background to understand that last crack.
The ground was froze hard underfoot. The air smelled like snow.
The season change finally arrived.