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My timing has gone askew today and our morning walk takes place just before dusk. What an unexpected treat. The sun is going down swiftly. It’s just Moss and me, I breathe deeply, I’m not exactly sure why. As it gets darker my senses become more alert.
I hear geese, gradually the sky becomes loud with geese. They fly right over us, it’s rather fantastic. We stop and listen and watch together. They fly over us towards the river.
I feel the massed beating of their wings, hear their honking.
Although they are hard to see, I feel them right there above us, it’s powerful. Their flight is purposeful. I feel as though I’ve had a tiny glimpse into estuary life as a grateful bystander.
There’s just a sliver of sun left now.
They fly on, I can hear them above and beyond. They are so loud. Moss potters around in the wet. I have to watch my footing carefully, it’s hillocky amongst ancient ant hills. I see the light of buoys on the river. Right now everything is changing. A lone duck flies overhead. The geese honk in the background. All I can do is stop and listen and feel. I am rooted.
My fingers are cold, my face is cold, Moss and I are enjoying ourselves. She attends to the smells.
The sun has sunk down – and it’s gone.
Brent Geese lino print by Richard Allen
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