This summer, by the speed river, sitting, probably eating sweating cheese, maybe drinking wine, probably playing dominoes. We were watching the geese.
In the summer, as you might very well imagine, geese have baby geese, goslings.
We counted the goslings while they toddled and swam along. Our counts varied so we counted again. A lone stray gosling was hollering out in goose-speak to its mother goose, who was somewhat oblivious, it seemed. The little gosling drifted further away.
This tragic scene played before us, and I can only imagine that, nevertheless, I won the game of dominoes.
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