The Canada goose,
Branta canadensis,
Mates for life.
I see them in pairs
With their gaggle of goslings,
Escorting the young ones across roadways
To the pond near my home.
They stare reproachfully
At oncoming cars
And waddle at a leisurely pace
Without breaking stride,
More haughty and confident
Than most humans crossing the road.
But one morning as I drove to work,
I saw one whose hauteur could not protect her
From a distracted driver, late for a meeting across town.
She lay at the gutter,
Still and plump and perfect.
The breeze ruffled her plumage,
But she did not stir.
Nearby, on the other side of the road,
Stood a gander.
He paced the green but would not leave.
Was he lost without her?
Did the lonely years stretch out before him then?
His lifelong mate, stolen too soon,
A listless string of solitary days
Until his days ran out?
Does the goose understand such things?
I do not know,
But I saw the gander’s grief
And it touched me.
My own heart grew heavy
Under the weight of solitude
And love cruelly extinguished.
How beautiful and terrible his vigil—
I too know the gander’s grief.
Woman With a Pen 