I watch through the rain-spattered windshield as the flock rises as one out of the winter-mud flooded field, dirt-darkened white wings showing gray against the not-quite-light sky. Their awkwardly graceful choreographed take-off is a sight to behold.
They winter here, landing white in early November to wait out the Siberian cold. Then in the spring, with feathers mudded brown and feet caked in months’ worth of cinerescent farm-field muck, they fly north once more.
They are flying now – less a ballet than a synchronized swim through drenched chill air – and I shake myself free of their mesmerizing spirograph flight-dance long enough to grab my camera. I have lived here for years – in this state for 16, in Snow Goose country for eight – and I have never yet taken a photo of this ornithological spectacle.
My husband, driving, sees what I am attempting to do and slows the car as I lean forward in the passenger seat, tilting my cameraphone at an up-angle as we approach their overhead flight path.
Snap.
One shot taken.
Adjusting the viewfinder, I pause, waiting until they are directly over us before…
