Where we
live, on the Eastern shore of Maryland, the gentle waters run in and out
like fingers slimming at the tips. They curl into the smaller creeks and
coves like tender palms.
The Canada
geese know this place, as do the white swans and the ducks who ride an
inch above the waves of Chesapeake Bay as they skim their way into
harbor. In the autumn, by the thousands, they come home 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 river bottoms for food. And there is,
between the arrogant swans and the prolific geese, an indifference,
almost a disdain.
Once or
twice each year, snow and sleet move into the area. When this happens,
if the river is at its narrowest, or the creek shallow, there is a
freeze which hardens the water to ice.
It was on
such a morning, near Osford, Maryland, that a friend of mine set the
breakfast table beside the huge window, which overlooked the Treed Avon
River. Across the river, beyond the dock, the snow laced the rim of the
shore in white. For a moment she stood quietly, looking at what the
night's storm had painted.
Suddenly
she leaned forward and peered close to the frosted window. "It really
is," she cried out loud, "there is a goose out there." She reached to
the bookcase and pulled out a pair of binoculars. Into their sights came
the figure of a large Canada goose, very still, its wings folded tight
to its sides, its feet frozen to the ice.
Then from
the dark skies, she saw a line of swans. They moved in their own
singular formation, graceful, intrepid, and free. They crossed from the
west of the broad creek high above the house, 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 easy as feathers coming to earth, the circle
landed on the ice. My friend was on her feet now, with one unbelieving
hand against her 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 instead, 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 by a narrow margin of ice instead of
the entire creek. The swans rose again, following the leader, and
hovered in that circle, awaiting the results of their labors.
The
goose's head lifted. Its body pulled. Then the goose was free and
standing on the ice. He was moving his big webbed feet slowly. And the
swans hovered 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 goose's wings from top to bottom, scuttled under its wings
and rode up its body, chipping off and melting the ice held in the
feathers. Slowly, as if testing, the goose spread its 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
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. I do not try to interpret it. I just think of
it in the bad moments, and from it comes only one hopeful question" "If
so for birds, why not for humankind?"
