Foghorn Lives

 Foghorn Lives!

Out here at the ranch, our favourite goose of all time, 

a goose commonly referred to as 'Foghorn',

returned to our pond every Spring for ten years, maybe twelve,

or more. 

Epic.

He had an exceptionally broad buff-coloured breast, 

with a distinct scar-like marking on one side, 

(perhaps an old war wound), 

making him instantly recognisable.

Foghorn had the swagger of a Texas rancher.

He'd land near the pond in early Spring, 

still ice and snow covered,

shake himself out as if to say,

 "Whoa, what a flight!".

Legs wide apart, wings back, he'd sway to the centre of the grassy patch  

and announce (in full foghorn mode), 

"WE'RE BACK".

He and Mrs. F were part of the family, at least for a few weeks. They came, scouted the territory, laid eggs, raised young'uns, (at least the ones not eaten for breakfast by the snapping turtles), 

and before you knew it, had departed.

That last time, Foghorn and the little missus were moving kind of slow.

She tended to stay put while he flew off on scouting missions.

No goslings materialized.

They hung around until well into early Summer.

Finally they both managed to become airborne - only just clearing the poplars at the top of the field,

then swung north-west against the evening light, and

were gone.

***

Enter

'Son of Foghorn'.

You may wonder how I know that he was in fact
                         Foghorn's son, not just any old gander, (they all being rather alike). 
When he first appeared, it was evident that he had not just his father's looks, but more his way, 
and though smaller, was similar in nature.
He gave the impression of knowing his way around, cocky-like, like perhaps he had been here before.
He is like his father, a little bit of that Foghorn swagger,
 and every so often demonstrated the old man's theatrical flair.

I got into the habit last Spring, of scattering scratch grain along the edge of their wandering territory, the green space by the pond. They would make their way to the spot, walking slowly and carefully, then he would keep lookout while she ate. 

Very gentlemanly. 

When they first arrived this year, (and I let out a whoop of delight), he turned toward the house,

stretched his neck to its full length and peered toward that old scratch grain spot. 

So, no doubt.

 It's him.

We're happy to see Son of Foghorn again, of course, 

but we do miss the old boy.

Still, life goes on, (especially if you are a Canada Goose), and as I speak, the nesting process is underway.

Just think, more little Foghorns.

And it is kind of comforting to know,

(at least, out here at the ranch), that,

one way or another,

Foghorn lives.