The Field

Largewings was his flock’s most powerful flyer, but even he had his limits. When his brother sped past him to take over the apex of the flock’s V, Largewings drifted back towards the western arm of the formation without protest.

From his long black neck to his white chinstrap and pointed beak, Largewings was indistinguishable from the other two dozen Canada geese flying with him. His larger body, though, and broader wingspan made him stand out even when observed from the ground as he and his companions flew against the southern autumnal wind. He had assumed the lead position when the flock began its migration that morning, two days after the time of daylight was less than the time of darkness. Largewings was strong enough to withstand the headwind, allowing the flock to benefit from his upwash. Yet two hours in the lead had been taxing, and his brother assumed the lead on seeing Largewings’ fatigue.

Largewings glided, letting the western arm of the formation fly past. He was passed by his mate and one of their children; their other two surviving children were on the eastern arm. His mate had lain six eggs in her clutch that spring, four of which hatched. One gosling was eaten by a bear, the other succumbed to illness, but the other three had grown into fledglings. For three weeks that summer the bear had ravaged the flock, forcing its members to seek safer grounds after the hatchlings arrived. Despite their loses to the bear, other animal attacks, and disease, the flock had grown in size.

They were in the second day of their migration, headed to a land where the lakes would not freeze and the surrounding foliage would remain plentiful. The flock needed a steadier food source until the time of daylight returned to dominance over the dark. This was Largewings’ fourth migration south. He already knew the path to their flock’s winter feeding ground, but the elders of the flock knew the resting and feeding stops along the route better.

His aunt began calling loudly from the eastern wing and flew past the apex. She then descended, the flock following in formation. As they closed in on a large grass field they broke formation, each bird landing where they spotted food. Largewings and the other males descended at the perimeter of the congregation and took turns performing sentry duty as the rest of the flock fed.

Largewings stood guard for several minutes, scanning the woods surrounding the field. Other birds in the area had scattered on seeing the approach of the larger geese, and were now perched on nearby tree branches. His son called to him, but Largewings did not respond. He didn’t want to feed just yet.

A coyote emerged from the southern edge of the forest. Largewings raised his head, ready to hiss and flap his mighty wings at the beast’s approach. But suddenly, the coyote turned its head and raced back into the forest. Largewings’ son called to him again, but there was something suspicious about the coyote’s action that demanded the bird’s attention. The perching birds flew from their perches, leaving the surrounding area still.

Too still.

Largewings stood and flapped, his loud warning squeal coming at the same time the forest erupted with explosions. Blood sport from the side of his cousin, who fell immediately. The explosions from the forest came more rapidly as the flock began lifting off the field, abandoning their feeding ground for the safety of the sky. Two other flock members succumbed to the explosions. Largewings’ warning call had delayed the start of his flight, and he needed more time than his companions to generate the lift required for his additional weight. He was less than four meters off the ground when his right wing was shattered, sending him crashing down to the field.

“I counted twelve kills. We need to get to them before the coyotes,” a human said, walking out of the forest, carrying a rifle. In a former life before the Great Collapse she had been the daughter of a stockbroker and middle school teacher.

“How convenient of the geese to all land in this large field,” said a boy coming up beside her. “What did you say this used to be?”

“A golf course,” she replied.

“Golf was a game, right? Like football or soccer?”

She laughed. “Not hardly. The ball was much smaller and harder, and you hit it with a… I can’t remember what they called it.”

“A bat?”

“No, that was baseball. These were long and thin, made of metal not wood.”

“Sounds like a cane.”

She shrugged. “Maybe that’s what it was called. Sure. A cane. They hit the ball with the cane until it got it into a small hole in the ground.”

“First one in the hole wins?”

“Would have been a more interesting game if it was, but no. You took turns hitting the ball, and the one who used the fewest hits was the winner.” She walked over to where Largewings lay dying. The bird lifted its head weakly, exposing its neck to the humans.

"Sounds like a boring game.”

“We did a lot of boring things back then,” she replied. “This one’s still alive.”

“We don’t have enough to feed the camp,” the boy said. “We should wait for the next flock.”

“Yes we should continue hunting, but not here,” she replied. “Geese are intelligent. The next flock that flies in this direction will detect our catch here.”

“You really think they’re that smart?”

“Call it what you want, instinct or intelligence. They only rested here because it’s been abandoned the last twenty years. We caught them by surprise, but they’ll avoid this place when they fly back north in the spring. There’s a pond five miles east of here, a good location for the next flock to land. We’ll go after we’re done here. And we’ll keep moving the next few weeks as the migration continues. This will be a good harvest, but it may not last. There are plenty of north-south routes, and by next spring they’ll travel along one we don’t hit this fall.”

Largewings looked up as the woman got down to her knees beside him. He saw the flock fleeing. The woman then reached over and crushed his neck.