Voice of the Goose

Indian Summer has rolled sweet, sunny warmth over our land for days on end now, and we sleep with our bedroom window open to the cool night, the full moon, the coyote’s yip and howl, and last night, the honk of geese. On and on they came, flying in waves over my house in the hollow at the end of the road, calling to one another in that talkative way Canada geese have.

Canada geese always remind Terry and I of three Venezuelans we once spent a week with, on the trail to Mount Roraima. These people never stopped talking. They woke up talking and I swear they fell asleep mid-sentence. All three of them. All at once. All at full volume.

That’s Canada geese. They gab, endlessly and loudly. How the hell, I’ve often wanted to ask them (and those three Venezuelans), can you find so much to talk about?

Which makes our pair of Canada geese all the more remarkable. This pair — I’ll call them Martha and Fred since I don’t know their real names — has been nesting in our hollow for years and years now. Other geese come and go. Sometimes, twenty or more will call our ponds home for the season.

But Martha and Fred are always here. Every year.

They are recognizable by their silence. We watch for them now in the spring, feel our spirits lift when they arrive, cheer the gander as he protects his hen from the annual onslaught of hormonally charged interlopers.

Two years ago, Martha and Fred built their nest on the peninsula directly across from our kitchen window, and until the vernal growth screened her, our binoculars provided us with a clear view of Martha at the serious business of setting. We fretted one early morning when a coyote stalked the shore of the pond, intent on raiding the nest. Heard Fred give fight. Rejoiced when he resumed his sentry duties, which meant the nest had survived.

When the goslings are introduced to the pond, we’re excited as kids. And when their numbers inevitably dwindle under the predations of snapping turtles, coyotes, and hawks, we’re saddened.

So yes, every year, Martha and Fred return with the spring. And every spring we are able to identify them from among all the other geese who venture here by their silence.

When I set out for a walk around the pond, my presence is noted and protested by all those other Canadas. Their alarm continues for the duration of my walk, and frankly, it gets to be annoying. Martha and Fred, on the other hand, just quietly and discreetly (as if they don’t want to hurt my feelings but really, they must put the safety of their children first) guide their offspring to the other side of the pond. As if they’re saying (quietly),  Ah, I see, you’re going there. Lovely, yes. Well, we’ll just shift over this way then. And that’s it. No hysterical honking. No frantic thrash of wings. No panic.

It’s as if they recognize us, just as we’ve come to know them. Oh, it’s them. Those quiet humans. The ones who don’t bring radios into our neighborhood. The ones who don’t scare our kids with fireworks and power boats.

I don’t doubt that when Martha and Fred take to the skies for their annual trek south, they honk to one another as they travel through cloud and mist and darkened skies. It’s how they keep together, after all. Kind of like Terry and I talking things out as we sort through our days, making sure we’re keeping our goals in mind, keeping ourselves on track. Kind of like that.

But silence is a wonderful thing. We both love it. We can be companionably silent together for hours on end. And then, when one of us speaks, it is usually to say something worth listening to.

I think Martha and Fred are like that. No need to state the obvious. No need to fill their world with endless honking. Just focus on the serious business of building that nest, defending it, and training the young ones how to steer out of the way of danger.

They’ve been at it for years, and they’re doing a grand job.