Early morning and the air is fresh and icy after the night’s sleep-stealing full moon. What brings me out from the warmth of my writer’s nest on this chill autumn morning? The geese! Aye, the geese are a gathering in the sky and on the land, and their collective call is orchestral, primordial, and there is no other sound like it.
I stand on the field’s edge, beside a resting buzzard, and listen to the strange music of the geese. I watch them move between land and air, envying their freedom to choose between the two.
This gaggle, made up of several hundred (although it’s impossible to count), is just a small group. There are thousands more occupying adjoining fields, criss-crossing silvery water-ways and meres.
They fly to and fro, sometimes in V-squadron formations, from coast to fields, congregating in their masses. It’s an impressive and unforgettable sight when the sky is filled with geese.
The congregation grow quiet, and that is my cue to return to my writer’s nest to draft a few more lines that will slowly manifest into my novel.
It seems the geese have settled, for a while, and so have I.