The combined ever-present chatter they make over and around the lake is next to impossible to capture in words. From single murmurs and sputters when they're settling at dusk, intermittent whining throughout the night, chatty conversation amongst themselves in the early morning, to full-blown honking by the dozens when they fly low across the lake in crooked Vs. Each must be trying to out-honk the next. New York City taxis are no rival for their collective clatter.
Migrating geese high above Decatur in the spring and fall are loud enough to call me out of my house. But over Lake J, where they are year-round residents, near, low, and many, they are deafening. I could never catch them in flight, though their Vs are common sights skimming across the lake.
The week I was there, they never once let up with their admonishing. "Keep typing! Keep those keys clicking! Don't you dare get up from that computer! Don't you know ideas can only flow through moving fingers? For God's sake, you came here to write, so write already! How much tea can you drink? TEA? You really think green tea is the answer? Write a blogpost about us, why don't you?"
All of them rattle at once. I did not feel gladness in my heart for their honking until chapter 33 was behind me and 34 fell easily into place. Still, I wonder, are there no predators of the Canada Goose at Lake Junaluska? dkm
|The Jemima Puddleduck kind?|
|One misty moisty morning over Lake Junaluska|