Besides the Canadian Snow geese we see quite often in colonies clustered on park lawns and lake shores here in the Northwest, and Mary Oliver's poem Wild Geese, I try to avoid geese. I have a vivid and terrifying memory of feeding popcorn to a group of geese in a park as a child. It was going well until one huge white goose spread it's wings, hissed and charged me. It might as well have been a prehistoric teradon because, I swear, its wingspan must have been 40 or 50 feet.
In the spirit of life however, which has a way of circling around and suggesting I look at such experiences, here I am starting a flying geese quilt. My hope is that, instead of focusing on the hissing, the huge flapping wings, the enormous turkey-on-feet in full-charge mode, I will replace said images with feelings of soaring, gliding, blue skies, soft feathers, and air currents. I have always wished I could fly, after all.