From the old, wood framed window, across from my bed, I saw a flock of white bellied geese flying by in their greater than, less than sign in the sky. It was so early in the morning, the alarm clock still had over an hour’s worth of minutes to tick through. Alarming me with their demonstrative calls, I thought I might have missed a very important party. About hundred feet from the end of the yard is the creek that carries the Salmon run in the winter, and always seems to host a great many kinds of exciting occurrences.
The hardwood floor is chilly, a slight leap to the woven rug, then one to the kitchen. I warm my hands over the gas burner, place the water. Another round of honking floats over my head. A whistling from the tea kettle. I step over to the french doors, opening one side. Not even the brisk air, steam, or Earl Grey awakes my heart open like these geese. The entire neighborhood, I’m sure is awake, and all the neighboring animals rise from their morning slumber to this stunning sound. I absorb. I listen and never tire of hearing their horns like big band in a melancholy rhythm.
I assume all the talking was merely a discussion about where to land for down they came, stretching out their dark wings, quick halting flaps, graceful wagging descent, webbed feet outstretched, one, two,.. four land on the water pool of the creek. The others land on the lake over the hill. There is a rocky cliff on the border of the creek and the hillside. I could no longer see the geese from my doorway. It went silent then, perhaps they were ready for their nap. I close the door gently, sip, breath, and crawl back into bed replaying their calls in my head, and wondering if I should sneak over to join them.