Fowl Traffic

The grill of your F-150 inches closer to me. A 290-horsepower V6 engine growls under the hood, the sound of barely restrained violence. 4,500 pounds of steel sitting on dual shock suspension equipped with tires meant to scale mountains no car was meant to tread. Twin exhaust pipes sit at the rear, vibrating in anticipation, itching to let loose a cloud of gas made from the husks of great beasts of millennia past, ready to propel this chasey of modern technological brilliance down the paved asphalt it sits on.

Your $65,000 truck is capable of hauling nearly one-and-a-half tonnes of cargo at a top speed of 135 kilometers an hour; a feat that even the greatest of idealists a century ago would shy away from dreaming – bashful even of the thought of creating a beast as brazen to God’s plan such as this. Your truck is a monument to power. To speed. To human endeavor.

And I have decided it is not moving one ******* inch.

I waddle closer to you, cocking my head as if to say your vehicle is the third most interesting thing I have seen this morning. It has been nearly 45 seconds since we first encountered each other, beginning this dance between Canadian goose and machine. The early morning sun stretches long shadows across the road we find ourselves on. I can see you behind the wheel of your vehicle, leaning forward and shouting obscenities we both know I will not respond to.

You think you own this space of land because you paved it? Does drawing lines down the center of it give you a sense of ownership? I would say that I have just as much right to be here as you do, but we both know that’s not true. I was here first, and now you simply need it as the quickest way to get from A to B.

And I’ll be honest. I had originally planned to cross this street simply to reach the patch of grass on the other side. Maybe there will be food there. Maybe I could socialize with the other geese currently making roost on the greenery - I have lots of friends, you know. Maybe I would just squat down and nap. There were endless possibilities on the other side of the pavement.

But now.

Now, as I stand here in the middle of the road? Now, as I stare at you in your metal cockpit, your temper rising as you occupy this extension of your masculinity, as impotent and immobile as the day you were born?

I can’t imagine a single place I would rather be.

Go ahead, honk at me. I know your tricks. Do you think it’s the first time a beast larger than me has tried to threaten me with empty noise? Your years of technological advances have tried to replicate the sound that I was born with. I take another step toward your truck, less than a half goose’s distance between us. The honking continues, each sound of the horn a testament to the frustration of the driver behind the wheel, growing in intensity and length. I stretch out my wings. Not as a show of force, but indifference, as I let out a yawn to display my weird goose tongue and way-too-many tiny teeth.

You spend nearly a year’s salary to own a machine that does not even approach the undeniable splendor of the creature that stands in front of your car. I close my mouth, refold my wings, and sit down on the road.

I can hear the other cars approaching the rear of your vehicle, pulling up to you much in the same way you did to me. After another 20 seconds, their horns start to blare just as yours is. But we both know they are not honking at me. YOU are what is stopping them from proceeding to their destination. How does it feel to be an obstacle? Do you feel as empowered as I do?

I doubt it, but that sounds like a you problem.

It has now been one-and-a-half minutes since we both came to a standstill. The line of cars behind you has grown in size and frustration, and I can see the sweat starting to bead on your forehead. Did you know that geese ALSO have incredible eyesight? Having my eyes situated on the sides of my head not only allows me to have a full panoramic view of my surroundings, but it also makes me entirely adorable. Can you or your truck say the same?

I see you reach for the handle of the driver-side door, swinging it quickly open as if to pray that this gesture would put the fear of man in me.

I tuck my head into my torso and close my eyes. I know how this will play out. Do you?

You approach my huddled form, clapping your hands and yelling as you do so. Your two-tonne death-machine did not make me budge, but I am sure the doughy mass of anxiety and cholesterol currently approaching me will get the job done.

You shuffle your feet closer to me, extending your arms and clapping near my face before quickly recoiling out of fear I might spring up and snap at your fingers. I can see the mental process in your eyes, wondering what part of a goose you are supposed to be afraid of. Do geese bite? I see you think. Peck? Scratch with their feet?

I watch as your mind wrestles with this paradox – everything your senses tell you about this foul resting gently on the road says you should not be frightened. But something else, something guttural, knows the truth – this creature is a descendant of dragons. Great lizards that roamed the earth and ruled as the rightful heirs of the domain. And while we may have shrunk in stature, we still know who this land belongs to, the divine right that we have been born with. The absolute, unalienable truth of our superiority.

Your hand reaches closer to my body. I can tell you do not have any further plan passed this point.

Your fingers are but a mere quarter goose away from me at this point. Do you plan on swatting me in hopes I will leave? Grabbing me and moving my body yourself? Gently usher me to the side of the road like a watchful parent?

Neither of us knows what you intend to do, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve already clamped onto your hand with my beak, leaping at you with the force of a 290 goose-powered engine. You recoil, rapidly trying to shake your hand free from my grip. I let go and charge at your ankles, nipping at any piece of exposed skin I can find beneath your pant leg. You turn quickly and try to rush back to your car, my teeth clenched firmly on the back of your sock. You try to kick at me while hopping back toward your car, your free leg swinging wildly and randomly in any direction you think a goose might be. Your balance falters, and you topple over beside your car’s open door. You bring your arms up over your head in hopes of shielding your face, and you wait.

And you wait.

After ten seconds, you realize you are no longer being struck by a goose, and you lower your arms, looking around with an expression of shocked confusion. You spot me on the side of the road I originally came from, grazing peacefully.

For you, our encounter will be one you will remember for the rest of your life. For me, I can’t guarantee I will recollect this rendezvous past lunch.

But you will always be left forever wondering, Why didn't the goose cross the road?