The Goose on the Pond
The goose on the pond, which can’t fly,
on spotting me swims hell for leather.
I crouch. She, approaching, not shy
but hissing, tongue out, wonders whether—
after striving to swim hell for leather—
to come closer or quickly retreat.
She hisses, tongue out, weighing whether
the stuff in my palm’s good to eat.
To come closer or quickly retreat
is resolved. She stops hissing and strikes,
wallops my palm. Good to eat!
Seeds and oats are a mixture she likes.
She stops hissing and rhythmically strikes
my hand as I crouch. She’s not shy.
Seeds and oats are a mixture she likes,
this Canada goose which can’t fly.