They rose majestically above our heads, a whole flock (or is it a gaggle?) of Canadian geese in perfect V-formation, their wings working furiously to heft their heavy bodies aloft, desperate to rise above earth and all its dangers. My head rose instinctually to follow their movement into a sky so sharply blue and clear that it pierces my eyes. For one instant, in the course of their trajectory heavenward, I might have reached up and grazed the underbelly of the leader, but I was frozen, held silent by their power and beauty.
In a few moments, they had passed from sight, crossing the road and turning toward the southern half of the park. Would they set down in a quieter, safer place, or decided to fly on, letting their wings carry them to destinations unknown? How would they decide, how would they know when time and place were just right? What instinctual knowledge guided them?
With a sigh, I gathered my self and my dogs together and continued to trek across the park, anchored to land and life, nothing to raise me above the reality of daily life. Yet the powerful rush of those wings, those racing engines of freedom, remained in my memory, prodding me to spread wings that often seem riveted to my sides holding me hidebound to earth, whispering words of encouragement in my ear. Soar…Fly.