The air held a briskness that spoke of the imminent shift to winter as I strolled the shores of Cayuga Lake in Stewart Park, the hum of Ithaca traffic a persistent whisper. My steps were slow, deliberate, each one a silent conversation with the crunching leaves beneath my boots. The park was quiet, save for the rhythmic lapping of the water and the distant laughter of children fading with the day.

Ahead of me, the lake was a canvas of motion, dotted with Canadian Geese whose gentle ripples disrupted the calm surface. As I drew nearer, the geese remained at ease, a community adrift upon the lake’s gentle embrace. Their honking was a familiar tune here, a melody that danced between the whispers of the wind.

I found a spot near a collection of white willows graced by their long, slender branches. These trees, captured in one of my photographs, formed a tranquil backdrop. The willows seemed to guard the geese, their branches swaying to the rhythm of their calls, a dance of nature choreographed by the unseen hand of the wild.

The scene was a living tapestry, and I, merely a thread woven temporarily within it. The white willows whispered tales of the seasons they’d seen, of geese that had come and gone, of the sun’s travels across the sky. Their trunks, gnarled and sturdy, were the silent sentinels of this place, standing watch over the ever-changing theatre of the park.

As the sunlight waned, casting a soft glow that seemed to set the lake ablaze with muted fire, the geese continued their aquatic ballet. Some nestled into the water, tucking their heads beneath wings, while others preened or jostled for space, a community preparing for the night.

In the quiet company of the white willows, I felt a kinship with these winged travelers. My heart, often encumbered with the weight of everyday worries, felt lighter here, buoyed by the simple beauty of the scene. I took another photograph, this one framing the geese against the backdrop of the willows, a moment in time where everything seemed interconnected.

As the day surrendered to the evening, and the chill of the air deepened, I wrapped my scarf tighter and prepared to leave this serene gathering place. I walked away, but the image of the geese, the protective embrace of the white willows, and the serene waters of Cayuga Lake remained etched within me—a serene encounter that would linger long after I departed, a memory as enduring as the flight of geese against the autumn sky.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved