The hunters had been in the cornfield for the last weeks in December.

There are never more than three and they never seem to appear until the final hour or two of waning daylight. They are close enough I can easily see them dragging their bags of decoys, identifying them as geese as they are set up. Days may pass without their firing a single shot though one of the group seems trigger-happy as he fires a rapid fusillade at whatever target he sees. After the first days the geese learned to avoid flying over the cornfield. Now they don’t return at all until it is dark.

These are not MY geese. They are here for the open water and, when possible, the pickings next door. If not here, they would hunker down on another lake in the region. Some may be stragglers, taking advantage of mild weather to linger a little longer. Others may well be visiting from their permanent home on Lake Erie where the local power plant prevents an ice buildup.

There is no question there are too many geese. I can count young ones who are hatched and reared here by the 20s. They have not yet become the nuisance they are along the East Coast though golfers certainly rue their tameness on the nearby courses.

I actually have nothing against goose hunting. If men (mostly) want to lug their paraphernalia into a soggy field and try to camouflage themselves under hay or corn stalks and then sit hours in the cold, generally for nothing, that’s all right with me. If they get a goose or two, I can admire their sharp-shooting abilities and hope it goes in the pot.

I am a rational being.

But then there’s the loner. (Originally, I always thought of one as a widow but, in the intervening years, have decided men are at least as devoted — once settled.) Still, I like to think men are a bit more practical in the long run so let’s have this be a “she.”

She has been here since shortly after the first shot was fired. She spends the nights along the brush at the edge of the lake. Whether two or two hundred fly in to reconnoiter, she avoids them all, swimming slowly away from the others.

Geese are known to mate for life. Now she is alone and, apparently, lost.

A pair has taken up residence, claiming Goose Island for spring nesting. They seem to be staking a claim quite immaturely but perhaps they know more than I.

The widow has been staying there, seeking shelter from the high winds and pelting rain or snow. The pair returns and the lone one swims away.

I fall asleep now hearing her plaintive cries hour after hour.

The water has temporarily opened, the movement — my “surf” — a feast for hungry eyes. Still I know the lake has to be cold for, when the temperature dips, a skim of ice forms quickly and won’t thaw again until days of warmer temperatures have finally gotten to it.

I almost wish the hunters might return once more even while knowing the odds that they’d get my loner would be slim indeed. Instead, I suspect I would just have a second cry to add to the mourning sounds.

I pray she’ll leave before it freezes for good. Will she set the mourning aside and eventually join a pack? It isn’t too late — if she hurries — to find company.

But no. Not this goose.

Stupid. Loyal. I don’t want to make it any more than it is but the goose stays.

And winter does return as expected.

I wake one morning to see almost all the surface covered in ice.

Goose remains.

And remains.

Lake is solid now except for one opening, an oval darker in color than any of the rest.

I check its color before breakfast each morning.

Slowly, the lake turns a solid white.

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. Her Reason for Being was published in 2008 with Love in Three Acts following in 2014. Both novels are now available at Lakewood’s Off the Beaten Path bookstore. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.