|A Nice Beginning|
|Flaring Hockey Insignias|
|The Mob Gathers|
|Fighting (or a Hockey Game) Breaks Out|
|Wings Up Like Hockey Sticks|
|Belly Slams and Tail Skitters|
|Race to the Goal|
|Join Everything Susan for More Fun|
Most Canadians drive past my house in 18-wheelers or cars. Some wave to me if I'm watering or walking the dogs. One Canadian couple stopped to feed the horses apples last fall. They do seem nice, these travelers of Hwy. 95, which is the only border access in northern Idaho.
Unless you fly in a flock.
Canada geese fly overhead in fluttering vees, occasionally honking as if to say "Hello, below!" As the days lengthen, pairs or groups flap overhead in search of open water. Despite all the melt and trickling rain, Elmira Pond is still frozen. No open water.
Yet a pair of Canada geese with wings spread open for landing honk like irritable city drivers, circling the pond. Their tail feathers fan into a black and white vee as if marked with the flight formation of their kind.
Or maybe its some secret hockey insignia.
No sooner do they land, six or seven more Canada geese show up. Now I'm not sure how many geese it takes to play hockey on a frozen pond, but the mob part is already forming. Black beaks emit honks and hisses as heads bob on coiled necks. The posturing is undeniably aggressive.
Taking up my ring-side seat I settle in to watch the game unfolding. Already I feel like honking and bobbing my head in response. The energy feels explosive; someone's going to get their feathers flipped.
One burly goose charges into a group of others--wham! They all circle around, some flapping, some flying, but they get back into the game. The honks grow louder. Wings rise like hockey sticks and sweep back across the ice. More skittering; more honks. The gaggle grows wilder.
One gander belly-slams onto the ice as another skitters on tail-feathers. Quickly they get back up onto wide webbed-feet black as hockey pucks. The honking has reached a feverish pitch. Two ganders run with wings like Dracula's cape to beat the other to the clump of grass. This must be the west-side goal.
Wings are dripping from the glaze of water that slicks the ice. A few ganders shake it off and hiss at the others. Honks subside. A few heads bob, threateningly. First one, then two and all flap away.
It's silent; the mob has left and I've no idea who won the game.
Have a some fun--join other bloggers for Silly on Sundays with host Everything Susan.