This evening before dinner, I headed out the door to clear the wooly mind that resulted from too many hours at the keyboard. Five minutes into the walk, a flock of Canada geese the size of this one flew directly over me at about 200 feet.
There was nothing unusual about that. Flocks of geese fly over this valley most mornings, heading south, and most evenings, heading north. But it quickly became apparent that something extraordinary was happening. No sooner had the flock passed over than another appeared slightly farther east. As it faded from sight, an even bigger flight materialized west of where I now stood in amazement. Within twenty minutes or so, I counted sixteen V formations, some with a hundred or more geese, some with 50 or 60, a few auxiliary flocks with 25 or 30; a thousand or more birds in all. For a time honking filled the air from every direction as the winter twilight deepened. When there was no longer enough light to see them, I heard a final flock receding to the north, the leaders making even more noise to keep the formation together.
My guess is that these were not migrating geese, but permanent residents of the area, the ones we see year ’round on golf courses and along streams. After all, they weren’t heading south. Why so many of them flew nearly together rather than in their usual solitary flocks, I’ll leave to ornithologists. I am simply grateful for the timing of that walk.
My guess is that these were not migrating geese, but permanent residents of the area, the ones we see year ’round on golf courses and along streams. After all, they weren’t heading south. Why so many of them flew nearly together rather than in their usual solitary flocks, I’ll leave to ornithologists. I am simply grateful for the timing of that walk.
