
(photo of Muddy River by Rebecca Arnoldi)
February 3, 2022
Today I hung out with a goose.
I was at the Muddy River, and was in love with the landscape; creamy yellow and faint turquoise melting ice, texture and marks of birches and patterns of reeds and weeds. Then I saw a tree, a beautiful strong oak tree with roots flowing into the trunk in a symmetrical halo. I saw that it had small round indentations on the bark. I got close and saw that countless round holes had been made in the trunk. The ones at eye height and lower still had the nails in them that someone had used to make them. I looked at this beautiful strong tree and felt angry and sad at the thought that someone would purposely try to harm it.
I contemplated cruelty and beauty.
I wished I had my art materials but it was drizzling so I had none with me. Then, suddenly, a Canada goose flew towards me. It landed close to me. I said hello, and it walked right up to me. We stared at each other. Its dark eyes imploring. I could see every feather. There were some white spots on the crown of its head. I squat, looking at the goose and it at me. I asked if I could pat its back and it let me. I studied the details I had never been this close to: black scales on its legs, each small sharp claw protruding from its webbed feet, and frayed feathers, from weather, wear, or maybe malnutrition.
I realized this visit was probably not just to say hello, but a hope for food. I don’t normally feed geese. In fact, I have even been in a position of authority as a park ranger telling folks not to feed them. But the snow and the frayed feathers made me want to help. I wished I had a little something. “I’m sorry, I have nothing.” I held out my empty gloved hand and the goose reached its bill toward my palm but immediately recognized no food present. I looked around on the ground and saw snow and mud and some sticks. I walked over to an oak, the goose following me, and I began to search for acorns at the trunk. There were many pieces of shells squirrels had left behind, but no acorn meat. Finally I found and offered a dirty stunted acorn to the goose. It inspected but rejected. I pushed the snow away from the tree trunk and we both looked at the green moss. It ate a little bit. It seemed moss was not a preferred food.
I crossed the path and dug into the snow on the river bank. Under the snow was a thick layer of brown fallen oak leaves. I dug them away and the goose joined me pulling one oak leaf away and then another with its bill. I dug out a space about as big as the goose. There, under the winter snow and fall leaves, was the green of another season. I felt like together we were learning about winter survival. I found some crab grass under the layers. I offered it to the goose ; it quietly nibbled enthusiastically at the green bits I placed beside it. I kept searching and invited the goose to come over to my findings and take them but it looked to me to unearth each piece. I dug pieces out and stepped back, trying to invite it in, and finally it did move into the dug out area and look for itself. We continued like this for a few minutes, searching for green surrounded by snow, brown, leaves and mud. I felt a quiet and a peace and a joy of sanctuary of oneness with wild. Then, it seemed that I should leave. Go back to the human world of frying pans and eggs, bread and toasters and toilets. We separated. I crossed the bridge and the goose walked along the worn path looking for bits of anything that had been dropped by people or trees.
On the other side of the river, I biked by three Canada geese doing exactly what we had. Unearthing green by the base of an oak tree and nibbling on findings. Somehow the goose that visited me had learned to look for people when hungry instead of looking for food. I assume it had been fed early in life, and maybe never learned the survival skills all geese need.
I have great ambivalence about feeding wild animals. There is something so beautiful in the connection with wildness. We humans need more of that. And it feels funny to have so much and not share it with those that are on the edge of starvation. But we can alter populations and cause huge problems in our desire to help. In Cape Cod, a few years back, some well meaning folks fed coyotes on the beach. The coyotes began to come to bonfires and beach blankets searching for food. People were scared. In the Fall and Winter, when people hunt coyotes, it seemed that there was a battle cry to kill as many as possible. The next Spring, the population had gone down. But of course, it can climb again as each coyotes has more rabbits to eat. Nature has the balance worked out. But, are we not part of nature? I don’t plan to bring food to feed any wild animals. But I also don’t regret at all helping one very hungry goose find some grass in the snow.