menace.

The man did not like geese.
He said so several times.

Still, the bird followed.
Little thuds on the pavement,
stopping when he stopped,
walking when he walked,
honking occasionally
to remind him of the arrangement.

Each morning he arrived with his paper.
I watched his eyes scan the water
before he let himself sit
hunched, waiting
until he spotted the bird.

The goose terrorised the local wildlife.
Ducks scattered.
Dogs scampered.
Tiny feet ran past shrieking
as two orange rubber ones
chased doughy hands.

I heard his laugh
ripple across the pond.

Early one morning
the goose climbed onto the grass,
stretched its wing,
and fucked off.

The old man followed it
until it was nothing more than a speck.

A white feather drifted down
and landed on his knee.
He rolled it between his fingers,
considered it,
then let the breeze take it away.

A honk fell from the clouds.

Menace, he muttered
having never liked geese.