Geese flying into the woods



The golf course was vacant, the fence was stern, the highway was narrow winding – the man driving the semi didn’t notice the goose crossing the road at night.

The bird was lost. He had been shot at by a hunter in a bush near the golf course, nothing could help him and he was wounded on on leg as shrapnel that had hit him in the head from a ricocheting bark of the tree where the hunter had aimed for was now making him loose his vision and hope of finding clear water to either drink from or wait in during the dawning day.

It was beyond night now. There was a road where a wise few had chosen to settle and build progressive housing of intelligent designed communities next to a warrior or two of a nation like army of sportsmen. The men traveled the outskirts and didn’t know whether or not their town was to make way one day or not, but waited ever so patiently and did always what they had been told to and worked for the common surroundings of family and earned their way helping in a way the hunter or the goose could survive off of.

Everyone in this community didn’t know the building plans though, where finite and about to collapse into a grim density of smoke and mirrors if one of the townsmen didn’t protect his rifle, his basketball net, his bookstore, or his community that was housed in the local schools area of churches that surrounded the suburbs. Closer the churches were to the bookstores where people waiting and coming and going to all areas of the surrounding villas cities and metropolises too though.

Everywhere in the Mirelands where traces of the sight that is indistinguishably hidden from the desolation of the back roads where the semi would go.

The goose had made it’s way across the road and went for the closest passing under a railway when a young man spotted it and wondered why it was hurt. He had remember his youth being injured by a death of a family cat. Poor baby, his father had taunted him. He was ill and working for the town and the community now. There were bills to pay and children to raise, but most of all, there was the injured goose.

The goose couldn’t find it’s way in the dark and decided to rest and decide in it’s own language the fiery fate of death the surroundings of it’s reality was playing on this creature that it was. Beast’s where foul, beasts where to be cared for, adored, and often times seen as an activists tuition insignia or a university professors reason not to eat red meat on thanksgiving.

Culture was hidden where it died. In the burbs of the town that was a hideout for the trees that encompassed the growing girth of a world that was everlasting to the stones of a prince that housed himself inside the goose’ old Vila to write about the metaphors of what would happen if that goose had not been flying over the hunters golf course at the right time.

The healing wasn’t taking place. The grass withered.

Laughter could be heard from all angles. Hammers were flying in all directions and friends were busy sleeping to wake up for the next meal of the day in the morning to get off to their lives in the Mirelands. Most of them went to highway to get to where they wanted, not all got to it by car or vehicle. As buses and bikes passed this highways bridge and way out towards the four narrow roads that split in the direction of dark blue brightening sky in the morning the next day.

The right road was the copy of the left road. All vehicles were permitted to cross the highway and get to the lands surrounding. It’s a matter of age though. And the time never agreed with anyone leaving.

Including the goose.



A joke.

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