The Lone Goose

Stationhill.com

Non-Fiction

Non-Fiction

The Lone Goose

It's 06:40 and I'm driving West on Bridgeway toward work. Down to my right is the flood plain of the Big Walnut Creek. Out of habit, I look for deer grazing along the tree line.

On my left is the north perimeter fence of the Port Columbus International Airport. A Southwest Airlines Boeing 737 is sitting on the end of runway 28R, waiting to takeoff.

In the distance, I see a flock of 30 or so Canadian Geese approaching from the South at about 100 feet altitude. I roll down my window and pull off the road to watch the show.

I hear the distant rumble of jet engines being throttled up as the geese clear runway 28L on the south side of the airfield.

Waiting . . . waiting . . . good grief, they're slow! Must be a fogey goose on the point. Advanced age isn't a requirement for a point fogey. They just make sure the flock always returns to the same place every year. The hunters are counting on it.

Now I can hear them honking to each other. Then again, they may be honking to themselves. I don't know, even a solo goose honks.

I used to talk to myself whenever I flew solo. Sometimes I'd talk to the airplane, which is probably about the same thing. The Lone Eagle talked to the Spirit of St. Louis while crossing the Atlantic Ocean, so I guess I was in good company.

The geese are nearly overhead. Their V-formation looks kind of sloppy, but finally the birds are in the clear.

I hear the high pitched whistle of turbine compressors spooling up as the 737 begins its takeoff roll and thunders past me.

I continue to watch the geese until they disappear over the tree line. The show's over.

I arrive at my desk about five minutes early.

Power . . . Control / Alt / Delete . . . User Name . . . Password . . .Hello, computer.

God is real. Life is a series of distractions.

John Martin Contact: iddylsjournal@aol.com

Reviews and comments are welcome.

Posted 10/09/2007