Once or twice each year, snow and sleet move into the area. When this happens, if the river is at its narrowest, or the creek shallow, there is a freeze which hardens the water to ice.
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The Canada geese knows this place, as do the white swans and the ducks who ride an inch above the waves of Chesapeake Bay as they skim their way into harbor. In the autumn, by the thousands, they come home for the winter.
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Where we live, on the Eastern shore of Maryland, the gentle waters run in and out like fingers slimming at the tips. They curl into the coves like tender palms.
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It was on such a morning, near Oxford Maryland. That a friend of mine set the breakfast table beside the huge window, which overlooked the Tred Avon River. Across the river, beyond the dock, the snow laced the rim of the shore in white. For a moment she stood quietly, looking at what the night's storm had painted.
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The swans move toward the shores in a stately glide, their tall heads proud and unafraid. They lower their long necks deep into the water, where their strong beaks dip through the river bottoms for food. And there is, between the arrogant swans and the prolific geese, an indifference, almost a disdain.
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Suddenly she leaned forward and peered close to the frosted window. "It really is," she cried out loud. "There is goose out there." She reached to the bookcase and pulled out a pair of binoculars. Into their sights came the figure of a large Canada goose, very still, its wings folded tight to its sides, its feet frozen to the ice.
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Then from the dark skies, she saw a line of swans. They moved in their own singular formation, graceful, intrepid, and free. They crossed from the west of the broad creek high above the house, moving steadily to the east.
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As my friend watched, the leader swung to the right, and then the white string of birds became a white circle. It floated from the top of the sky downward. At last, as easy as feathers coming to earth, the circle landed on the ice. My friend was on her feet now, with one unbelieving hand against her mouth. As the swans surrounded the frozen goose, she feared what life it still had might be packed out by those great swan bills.
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Instead, amazingly instead, those bills began to woke on the ice. The long necks were lifted and curved down, again and again; it went on for a long time. At last, the goose was rimmed by a narrow margin of ice instead of the entire creek. The swans rose again, following the leader, and hovered in that circle, awaiting the results of their labors.
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The goose's head lifted. Its body pulled. Then the goose was free and standing on the ice. It was moving its big webbed feet slowly. And the swans stood in the air watching. Then, as if it had cried, "I cannot fly," for of the swans came down around it. Their powerful beaks scraped the goose's wings from top to bottom, scuttled under its wings and rode up its body, chipping off the ice held in the feathers.
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Behind them, rising with incredible speed and joy, the goose moved into the sky. It followed them, flapping double time, until it caught up, until it joined the last end of the elegant line.
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The goose spread its wings as far as they would go. When at last the wings reached their fullest, our swans took off and joined the hovering group. They resumed their eastward journey, in perfect formation, to their secret destination.
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My friend watched them until they disappeared over the tips of the farthest trees. Only then did she realize that tears were running down her cheeks and had been for how long she don't know. This is a true story. I do not try to interpret it here. I just often think of it in the bad moments, and tell myself: "If so for birds, why not for man?"
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