Have I been waking later not to a different drummer but to two?

Could it be? What do they do — take turns? Or is perhaps my little yellow-bellied sapsucker is simply tired today? Nursing a splitting beak of a headache perhaps? Or tired of the clouds, cold and rain? I know I am.

His song, for whatever reason, was slower this morning and — worse! — all played on one note! What happened to my little man so fond of variety and so innovative that these past mornings have become a cacophony of symphony, each series rat-a-tat-tatted out from a different pipe on my television antenna? The blandness … well, it reflects the day.

Still, the morning fog rises to reveal the miracles that surround me. The big goose with the loose feather (can its wing be broken?) comes each morning with the others for the corn but seems to be ostracized, his wing feather pointing toward the ground at a right angle. I’m guessing it will eventually fall out (the yard is already noticeably strewn with huge feathers, more unsightly to me than anything else geese might leave). I hope then he will look like a presentable goose and be welcomed once again into the pack.

The geese, big and small, wait now each morning for their breakfast of cracked corn. Patience apparently doesn’t rank very high on their list of virtues when food is the object. They’ll approach within a foot or so, muttering and hissing pointlessly. I regret not having found (or taken) the time to entice them closer. Perhaps once the rains stop.

I have learned by now that taking days off to go “camping” seems a goose norm. I called it that years ago and can think of no better term. Normally the entire family disappears for three or four days. I presume it has something to do with the training needed to become a grown-up goose. I wish I could follow and learn where they go and what they do there. Could it really be that different?

One family departed eight days ago and has not returned. Survival school has either proved more challenging or all those youngsters have failed to survive in which case the parents might simply return anonymously to join the large adult group who seems to have settled in for the season.

That silly sapsucker has no worries about learning to fly, not him or any of the family he’ll produce. Sadly, as the weeks proceed I’ll be seeing less of him. Not grounded as have been the geese, they — and most of their birdy acquaintances will soon be off to do other birdy things.

As the days pass it has become more difficult to tell the other two remaining families of goslings apart. The younger are slightly lighter and more tinged with yellow (less gray) though the differences are rapidly disappearing. They must feel the same for, more often than not, the two families meld, eating together, swimming in clusters. Whereas before, the babes were bracketed by parents — that is, one adult, the kids and the other adult leading or following, second family repeating the sequence, and more when there have been more — now it might instead be one or two adults at the lead, perhaps seven of the eight goslings, another adult, the final straggler (a philosopher?) and then the last adult.

There is reason in this for, much as we socialize our children to prepare them for school and beyond, once the flying lessons begin, the group will practice as one. And I know in time all those here will join, or be joined, to form one of those huge Vs that add so much magic to those special fall days.

Brrr! Let’s welcome summer first.

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.