Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Oh where are you Mother?!

In this beautiful spring time when everything is coming alive and green, I start to get a little homesick for my egg. Sometimes I want to just pull myself together into that white shell and rock back and forth or roll around. And . . . I wish I could find my mother and father. When I came out of my shell they were gone. They never got to see my beautiful blue eyes, my orange lips and webbed feet~~feet everyone envies. I do look quite regal in an armada of feathered friends paddling the mill race. They never saw me swim for the first time, or hear me honk, or flap my wings or sing. At first I thought the man with the long blue apron was my father but he has a short neck, he can't float, has no orange lips, and sadly no feathers.

Well, last night when the moon was bright and it was all quiet I composed a song. Maybe if everyone sings it~~my mother will find me.

To be sung to the tune of On Top of Old Smokey:

I'm just a white gosling, I've never been bad.
I search for my mother: I search for my dad.

   Yes, I am an orphan, which oft is okay,
   But I need the love from my parents today.

When I broke my egg ope' inside our warm nest
I thought with my parents I'd surely be blest.

   But life can be hard, yes, and life can be mean:
   My mommy and daddy were not to be seen.

If I could but find them, I'd flap wings with joy,
I'd wiggle my tail like a little goose toy.

   I'm sure my mom loves me; oh, why would she not?
   I'm handsome and gallant, and never a snot.

If I could but find her, my it would be sweet!
Then I'd know for sure that my life was complete.

   And as for my daddy, with candor I speak,
   I feel he's a gander with a handsome beak.

What happened while nesting? Oh, where did they go?
Did some big fox eat them? Please say it ain't so!

   I feel in my feathers that they are not gone.
   That they're looking for me, from dusk until dawn.

If I could but find them, oh how we would play!
We'd honk old-time goose songs throughout the whole day.

   We'd swim in the mill race, we'd dive in the pond,
   We'd eat some dried corn, and we'd finally bond.

We'd sleep in our nests snug, when daylight is done,
We'd sleep in the knowledge, our family is one.

   Oh, where are you Mother? Oh, where are you Dad?
   My life without parents is terribly sad.

If you read this poem, please come find me here.
I'm Bob, your sweet gosling, I'm Bob, your sweet dear.

   My people are gen'rous, they feed me real well,
   If you come to live here, they'll treat you just swell.

So that is my story, it's straight from my heart.
I hope you can find me, and-never we'll part.

   A goose needs his family, through thick and through thin.
   Please come home and find me. Oh, where have you been?

My song I must close now, my sad tale is done.
Please Mother and Father, come home to your son!

Until next time . . .

Monday, April 1, 2013

Always go deep on April first . . .

That much dreaded day, April first, arrived with cold pink clouds passing quickly through the tree tops along the riverbank. Far off I could hear mass songs of feathered friends singing to the morning, a morning that may be the last for some of our finned friends. No feathered friends have checked out potential nesting homes--seems late to me. Pilgrim, my very dearest friend, has already laid an egg.

   Back from her winter home, Miss Harriet Blue Heron, looking very fine in her long gray feathers, came this morning for the first day of FISHING SEASON. Well, for her it is survival and she is thankful. We understand. When she catches a little fish, we all bow to that fish who gives its life.

   FISHING SEASON, oh dear. . . . Lewis Trout has gone deep but not before he did his best to gather his young inexperienced trout friends to safe areas away from clear pools. "Fishing" . . . what a terrible word. An activity that is said to be FUN--not to Lewis. Lewis got caught once by a terrible smelly man wearing long green boots wading in the creek. Cecil should have bit him! Lewis was caught on a line with a very sharp hook--it painfully pierced his lip. Lewis fought hard, he leapt in the air, he flailed. he was mercilessly grabbed by a hard calloused hand whose face was grinning with a bit spit drooling down the corner of his mouth, and thrown without respect onto the riverbank TO DIE! He lay gasping for air, losing strength fast, gills fighting for breathe, heart beating hard . . . he flopped and flopped and with one last chance effort flopped back into the creek. He was weak, in pain, bleeding, lip torn . . . just dreadful! He still bears the scares of that awful day. "Catch-and-release"--and it is all for FUN?!--poor Lewis.

   Remember avoid open clear pools and always go deep on April first.

Until next time . . .