Love at First Honk

The river curved along the far side of the factory parking lot. Geese nibbled the grass at its edge. One old goose was kept his distance from the flock. One day, chased by a dog, he whacked into a car parked in its numbered space on the asphalt. The whack set off the car alarm. A repetitive, steady, loud honk began. The goose became enamored of the sound and settled down to listen. When it stopped, he whacked the car again. And again the loud honks erupted. Each day that week he returned to listen to his lover sing to him. The racket was loud enough that workers at the factory became annoyed, but couldn’t find the owner to complain. That weekend, when the goose returned, the car was gone. Finally, Monday arrived and the goose became reacquainted with his lover. I regularly parked nearby and witnessed the reunion. A big whack of the car door and the resumption of honks. At times, the goose joined in reply. Then, for a whole week, the car space remained vacant. The goose morosely sat in one spot and waited. Hunger did not budge him from his wait. Years later, every time I hear an errant car alarm sound, I think of that goose sitting alone by the river.


© Sherman K. Poultney 29 April 2005