The Canada geese know this place, as do the white swans and the ducks that skim above the water. In the autumn, by the thousands, they fly south for the winter. The swans move toward the shores in a stately glide, their tall heads proud and unafraid. They lower their long necks deep into the water, where their strong beaks dig through the lake, and creek bottoms for food. And there is, between the arrogant swans and the prolific ducks and geese, an indifference, almost a disdain.
Sometimes an early frost will move into the area. When this happens, the waters turn to ice.
It was on such a morning that a friend of mine and I approached the lake. The frost had laced the trees and rim of the shore in white. For a moment we stood quietly, looking at what Mother Nature had painted.
Suddenly my friend leaned forward to peer closer.
"It really is," she cried out loud, "There is a goose out there."
She pulled out a pair of binoculars. Into their sights came the figure of a large Canada goose, very still, it's wings folded tight to it's sides, it's feet frozen to the ice.
Then from the gray skies, he saw a line of Trumpeters. They moved in their own singular formation, graceful, intrepid, and free. They crossed from the west, moving steadily to the east.
As my friend watched, the leader swung to the right, then the white string of birds became a white circle. It floated from the top of the sky downward. At last, as easily as feathers coming to earth, the circle landed on the ice. My friend was standing with one unbelieving hand against his mouth. As the swans surrounded the frozen goose, she feared what life he still had might be pecked out by those great swan bills.
Instead, amazingly, those bills began to work on the ice. The long necks were lifted and curved down, again and again. It went on for a long time. At last, the goose was rimmed bu a narrow margin of ice instead of the entire lake. The swans rose again, following the leader, and hovered in that circle, awaiting the results of their labours.
The goose's head lifted. It's body pulled. Then the goose was free and standing on the ice. He was moving his big webbed feet slowly. And the swans stood in the air watching. Then, as if he had cried, "I cannot fly," Four of the swans came down around him. Their powerful beaks scraped the gooses wings from top to bottom, scuttled under it's wings and rode up it's body, chipping off and melting the ice held in the feathers. Slowly, as if testing, the goose spread it's wings as far as they would go, brought them together, accordion-like, and spread again.
When at last the wings reached their fullest, the four swans took off and joined the hovering group. They resumed their eastward journey, in perfect formation, to their secret destination.
Behind them, rising with incredible speed, and joy, the goose moved into the sky. He followed them, flapping double time, until he caught up, until he joined the last end of the line, like a small child at the end of a crack-the-whip of older boys.
My friend and I watched them until they disappeared over the tips of the farthest trees. Only then, in the dusk which was suddenly deep, did she realize that tears were running down her cheeks and had been-for how long she didn't know.
This is a true story. it happened. Do not try it interpret it. Just think of it in the bad moments, and from it comes only one hopeful question: "If so for birds, why not for man?
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