Late last night, I stood alone in my kitchen, looking out into my dark garden. I felt a strange sense of understanding of my place in the world, and distantly, overhead through the layers of floor, ceiling, and sky, I could hear the calls of wild geese flying over my house.
I remembered this time when I was young, and sitting out in a wooden fort my brother and I had built up against a fence in our backyard. It had snowed, and I was playing out there alone. All of the sudden, the sky above me was completely full of geese--a migration flock containing hundreds instead of the usual dozen or so. The reflection of the setting sun on the snow cast up a strange pink-gold light that caught on their wings and underbellies. I'd never seen anything like them, and it was so cool that it made me laugh out loud in startled surprise.
Neither of these incidents actually have any meaning or bearing on my identity. I just like hearing geese.
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