Photo by Susan Crossett

A perfect summer day for mid-July: sunny, mid-80s and a heavenly breeze blowing in from the south. Days of heavy rains have contributed to the level of the lake so it remains relatively full. And deep. Certainly deep enough.

It’s almost time for the geese to fly.

The two (or are there three?) families of goslings have matured to the stage where it’s pointless to try to tell youngster from parent. I can do no more than count at each feeding. They look about the same.

All into the water! They take to it with great gusto and even more flapping about. To my surprise, however, they are silent, the only sound coming from their play in the water, a happy reminder of swimming pools many decades ago.

Some would prefer simply to float — perhaps paddle aimlessly about — but it is not to be for learning to fly is serious business.

First, the diving lesson is reviewed. I can’t help but laugh as these big birds flap and then disappear beneath the water, popping up a distance away within seconds. Taught when the goslings are less than a day old, it is first of all a safety measure, a keen way of avoiding the enemies on or above the water. The snakes and snappers are something else again and undoubtedly one of the reasons I see the population of goslings dwindle.

Now, however, the underwater ballet is encouraged as a way of strengthening those huge, soon to be powerful, wings.

Back to the surface without delay, they line up, facing south and the longest expanse of open water.

Flapping hard — still silent — the bodies lift out of the water and they move off, skimming the surface with only “toes” of their webbed feet left to trace lines across the lake. They slow and settle before reaching the final shore.

Returning to the starting point (which, by my good fortune, lies immediately beyond my window), they are encouraged to try again. It’s a half-hearted attempt.

Meanwhile, the audience on shore pays rapt attention. Mother mallard seems unconcerned about her eight. The two remaining goslings who didn’t hatch until June and thus remain juveniles watch with their parents from the island. It is not an urge they can answer yet.

Their older cousins have returned by now, complimenting themselves on a day’s work successfully accomplished. From water’s edge, those trees immediately beyond the south shore look terrifyingly high. They feel no rush to get there. Not yet.

Four days later: Like a strange horse race, twenty-some leave the starting gate in unison. I look for the winner(s) but watch as all drop back well before the trees.

Next day: Unlike their big cousins, the ducklings have become airborne without ruckus or, apparently, practice. They fly in regularly for breakfast and dinner and approach with the same familiarity and gusto as when they were regular residents.

The geese have far to go before they attain the same degree of independence. Though preferring to idle on the lawns (thanks heaps, guys), they do demonstrate full familiarity with the aquatic side of their nature. They continue to dive, magically disappearing with a minimum of effort. The deeper grasses must hold a special reward for it is hardly uncommon to see only the tail emerged from the water’s surface. Almost as common to see them teeter and then flip over. An unceremonious act, to be sure, though they do pop up again quite unembarrassed.

Their flappings have grown in strength. An adult can lift his body straight up from the water until almost all is airborne, simply by his exertion. Indeed, the adults are flying now.

The young ones, hardly goslings anymore except by their timidity, are practicing as diligently but — oh, my — those trees still seem far too formidable — especially with the ripening corn an easy walk away.

Where the initial lessons remained remarkably quiet, now there is a new feeling afield: if the flapping alone can’t get us up in the air, certainly we can manage solely by vocal power. Indeed, one might expect them to rise into the air on the gusto exhibited in their cries and squawks. Is it a cry of panic, I wonder. I might sympathize. Or is it a cry of joy as they feel a new sensation — flight. Even if it lapses after a nanosecond, it has to be thrilling to lift up like that, relying on nothing by one’s own ability.

I sat on the deck last night enjoying the cooling breezes. I hardly noticed as they slowly swam off to my left. They tend now to swim in a long line — the corps de ballet, I remember calling it once before.

There, lining up to face the south end, definitely their favored runway, all flapped strenuously and noisily crossed before me, lifting majestically into the air.

The adults, memory serving to remind them of the certainty of their act, rose, cleared the lower bushes and flew into the cornfield.

The younger set — the obvious six — also rose, obediently following their elders. For a moment or two. Then they very quickly (and less noisily) dropped back to the safety of the water.

It’s a sight I’ll get to see a few more times.

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.