Sitting at my desk, having exhausted my preliminary necessities of the day, I am looking upriver across the endless rolling meadows to the cerulean horizon. Nearby in the field immediately below, there are skinny Canada geese (always in pairs) waddling up and down the narrow pathways between the cornstalk stubble looking for food. Occasionally, one of the geese stops to extend its neck towards the ground, attaching its black beak to a remnant corn cob unearthed from the abandoned residuum. In this solemn atmosphere, the geese take what they can get.

Normally I wouldn’t be entitled to acquaint myself with anything resembling skinny. Yet today – thanks to Ozempic – I have painlessly detached myself from the former allure of carrot cake (at least, psychologically). Though my appetite is spent, I am not unlike the Canada geese in having a yearning to collect nutrition from whatever is available. Like them, I shamble up and down familiar pathways, repeating my own seasonal habits, searching for authority. I wondered privately whether the debris retrieved by the geese from beneath the trampled cornstalk stubble were fermented corn. It was only earlier this morning – while comfortably seated in my car careering along the highways and while listening to Mark Whitfield’s classic rendition of “Some Other Time” – that I wistfully recalled sitting in my den, the fire ablaze in the Vermont casting, sipping a chilled martini and reading (and shamefully re-reading with equal vigour) Jane Austin. Though vodka hasn’t the reputation of wine for the “dregs”, both are stimulating notwithstanding.

Now – late afternoon – the sunshine glistens upon the rippling river. The elongating shadows have provoked the departure of the geese from the field. Magically, the large birds arise high into the sky, then collectively angle to their shoreline resort, squawking as they go. I am left to contemplate the rubble. And the beauty. And its tranquility. The distillation of my day also reminds me of impending meetings.  My seemingly redundant habits have nonetheless succeeded to advance my trifling ambitions, The measure of my day is never far removed from a commensurate degree of assiduity. Like sleeping and awakening, the notions of change and duty alternate daily and interminably. There is no certainty to reduce life to a millefiori upon one’s desktop. Yet I am forever stimulated by the artistry of life. Here for example is an edited version of a photograph emailed to me this morning from a former neighbour on the other side of town:

Rona, the author of the photograph, provided in addition a summary of activity of several common acquaintances. It was a pleasing reminder of the value of society. It celebrates too the scourings we have in common with cats and the geese.

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The Dregs

Sitting at my desk, having exhausted the small necessities of the morning, I look upriver across endless rolling meadows toward a cerulean horizon. In the field below, pairs of skinny Canada geese waddle along narrow paths between cornstalk stubble, foraging. From time to time one halts, extends its neck, and fastens its black beak to a remnant cob unearthed from the abandoned residue. In this solemn quiet, the geese take what they can get.

Ordinarily, I would not claim acquaintance with anything resembling “skinny.” Yet today—thanks to Ozempic—I find myself, at least psychologically, detached from the former allure of carrot cake. My appetite has quieted, though not disappeared. Like the geese, I still feel the urge to gather nourishment from whatever presents itself. I move along familiar paths, repeating seasonal habits, searching—if not for food, then for authority, or perhaps simply for justification.

I found myself wondering whether the debris uncovered by the geese might be fermented corn. Earlier this morning, seated comfortably in my car and moving along the highway while listening to Mark Whitfield’s rendition of Some Other Time, I drifted back to my den: the fire alive in the Vermont casting, a chilled martini in hand, and a well-thumbed Jane Austen novel—read, and shamefully re-read, with equal enthusiasm. Vodka may lack wine’s reputation for “dregs,” yet both possess their own quiet stimulation.

Now, in the late afternoon, sunlight glistens on the rippling river. Lengthening shadows send the geese skyward. They rise with surprising grace, angle toward their shoreline refuge, and depart in a chorus of indignant squawking. I remain, left with the field—the rubble, and the beauty, and the tranquility.

The distillation of the day brings to mind impending obligations. My habits, however redundant they may seem, have nonetheless advanced my modest ambitions. The measure of any given day is seldom far removed from the degree of attention paid to it. Like sleeping and waking, change and duty alternate, persistently and without resolution. There is no reducing life to a neat millefiori arranged upon one’s desk. And yet, the artistry of it all continues to stir me.

This morning, a former neighbour sent me an edited photograph. Alongside it came a brief account of mutual acquaintances—a small but pleasing reminder of society’s quiet value. It is, in its way, a celebration of what we share with the geese, and even with cats: the instinct to gather, to sift, to make something—however modest—of the leavings.