Branta leucopsis

The first days of spring, its wet bill through the cream-colored shell, small enough to lounge in one’s palm, two webbed feet sprout from a puff of white and gray, the honk of its mother, her body slender and matured, smooth black plumes travel down the length of her neck, give way to an oblong of beige and silver, father arrives honking with mother goose, they dance atop the Swedish cliffs, beams of golden sunlight, warm honey cascading over the pasture, the nest four-hundred feet above the ground, stomach sounds, faint not lost, chirps and tweets echo through the gorge, hunger beckons from the foot of the mountain, the hatchling has yet to fly, Papa jumps, his body shrinks, vanishes, Mama flaps her wings, dives, the sun paints her shadow, the hatchling is left, steps forward, flaps its wings like Mama like Papa, takes the leap, the cool rush of air thud. mute.

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