Sadly, seeing one goose at the end of the season occurs more frequently than I’d like. Honestly, it’s an hapenstance I’d prefer to never see played out.

As a column the subject would be more appropriate for December — even November, once in a while — but I prefer to see the year end on an upbeat. Now it’s January — snow, gray, ice. And, yes, ice that has by now covered my lake. No more dancing waters!

This goose struck me as different from the start. Not that it was — a goose is a goose. Basically. But he (permit me — who knows?) hung out at one edge of the gazebo. He reminded me of a gent waiting outside a phone booth (we did have them, you know — and not that long ago either).

Anyway, there he’d stand. Not constantly. Not steadily. Maybe a half hour or so, as if his expected call was due between eleven-thirty and noon. Not hearing, he’d return to the open water — or, as likely, take a long nap as gooses tend to do.

The water stayed open far longer than expected. Last December tended to be like that, green lawns exuberantly remaining where their white cousins would usually appear.

And the goose stayed.

I’m not sure if he gave up on the phone call business or perhaps did make his connection. He’d return to the site (the island where the little gazebo stands) but seemed content just to rest there.

Perhaps he had little choice for the lake water, desperately low for much of the latter half of the year, had now been replenished, making more of the other islands pretty squishy. Land might be fine (and even dryer) except for Minor who still considers the yard his domain (though even he has given up on the much larger deer who have notified all they have no intention to leave — or even budge.) (I know I could but think it unwise to walk up nose-to-nose to say “scoot.”)

The goose, then.

He waits — surprisingly not always alone. Small flocks of geese continued to stop by. They’d fall asleep, frequently close to my straggler. He seemed happy with the company. There was certainly no attempt to chase them off — by noise or goosy flutterings. He wouldn’t, however, really join. Not his tribe perhaps. And then they’d depart — the seven, the three. And one remained.

Weeks passed and, while he slept, I was able to observe this goose more closely and what I observed I didn’t like at all.

It took days before I was positive for geese, when they sleep, pretty much hunch up as much as they can. The water may be open, so always above freezing, but many days were colder than that and we had some pretty ferocious winds back then, too.

My goose didn’t look like the other geese. He looked as if he’d just returned from a foray masquerading as Superman and now, tuckered out, had forgotten to put his cape away. It dangled from shoulder to ground.

A broken wing, most likely.

Sad. No chance of even becoming a hunter’s target to put him out of his misery. And probably protected just enough to escape the coyotes and other frequent marauders. I could almost wish for a quick, if violent, end.

I knew what was coming.

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.