Easter goose

Before the days turned cold again, I sat here, looking off beyond the dock, to the little tuft of tall field grasses growing just where the pond water splits—half coming from behind the old oak woods, half draining our usually puddled lot of young Sugar Maples.
To a mound, where, every spring, a goose would sit on a nest of eggs, her head low, barely seen. While her mate swam in the shallow water, back and forth, beside her.

Canada Goose pair

By Easter, there’d be goslings, fluffy, yellow, and small—the perfect complement to egg hunts in the lush grass and baskets filled for little girls. From across the water, she’d bring them, six or eight swimming in a row, to feed on the tender green grass of the dam, her mate following closely behind.
But, each spring we’d watch, as this little family grew, day by day, with each crossing, smaller by one. Until, none remained but the mated pair, to move on and return the next year.

I always wondered about them, their defenseless young in a world that feeds upon the most innocent.
The unknown dangers they’d fought against—and lost.
Yet, each year, began again.


I watched, several springs later, the nest, more suddenly emptied than ever before.
As if they’d been taken all at once—the whole family, in the course of just one afternoon.
Shells broken and scattered.
Both goose and gander, gone.

From the thick, snarled grass of the field, far skirting the edge of the pond, she stepped out onto the paved surface of our little country lane.
Behind her, six or eight, walking in a row, to feed on the tender grass--
and never touch the water of the pond.

beside the dock, from below,
rising to surface of pond

click to enlarge!

Common Snapping Turtle, Chelydra serpentina

Dolls and Easter Dresses

A goose on the roof...

I love games.
Not so much the ones of turns, passed again and again around a board,
but those of thought, often labeled, “skill,”
that leave, more than talent-- laughter.

When our family was young, each day ended in games, a reward for that day’s efforts. Around the kitchen table or cross-legged on the living room floor, smiles and giggles… and then, up to bed!

Years later, still, the games are a part.
And though the players have changed,
the laughter from those early years is the same.

From behind your laughing eyes,
the child I remember.




One of our family favorites is Wise and Otherwise--a game of creatively completing half-written statements, little known proverbs, seldom heard words of wisdom.
I could not help but think of it when I found this goose on the roof.
I am sure you can finish the statement,
"A goose on the roof,..."

Of Flyways and Thruways (SWF)

The path is one of certainty.
A long, straight road, with few opportunities to escape—the trimmings bounding it edged, now, with field fencing sporting the bright orange drift guards of an upstate New York winter.
An otherwise gray drive in every way—from the concrete roadway, stained white with salt, to the thick clouds meeting snow-covered hills in the distance. And carrying, this time, a sadness that floods my mind with the many previous drives made over many previous years.


I have traveled the New York State Thruway countless times since leaving home for college thirty years ago, two figures waving from the driveway each time, as I left. Back and forth along its flat course from its eastern origin to its arrival in Buffalo, watching the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains dissolve into the wide, spreading land of the Niagara escarpment, and beyond. Measuring our progress in the passing of small river towns along the Mohawk, the smokestacks of industry, billowing. Until, curving southward at Lake Erie, past sloping hillsides planted in grapes, we reached Pennsylvania and Ohio. And made a new home.


With bags of snacks between us, and wrappings for winter weather stowed handily behind our seats, we left hugs and kisses, this time upon just one, and began, once again, the 12-hour journey, westward, to Ohio.
On this day, gazing mindlessly off into the gray, I saw large formations of geese crossing overhead, as never before. Their Vs shifting and sliding, as if drawn across by some unseen force, turning and tilting. One after another, in fluid strings of more than a hundred individuals.


And I watched, amazed at the sheer numbers in this unending dance that will, season after season, be performed.
The travelers above travelers—on Flyways and Thruways.

image credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

The Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge consists of over 7000 acres of wetland habitat in central New York State. It is situated "in the middle of one of the most active flight lanes in the Atlantic Flyway," and is cut in half by the NYS Thruway.

See more Skywatch here.