Goslings 1,2,3,4,5

The sun had no cloudy competition when it rose this morning but after two years of cold, wet summers, it still seems suspiciously nice outside.

We slip on our boots so the dew won't soak our footware and take off for a walk through the pink and lilac haze created by the dames rockets that carpet the understory at this point in the springtime parade. Every so often, we walk past a spot where the sun sneaks through the trees, warming the blossoms so they scent the air.

As we turn toward the short path that takes us to the rocky hook we call the North Point, my binocular-toting husband stops and points through the the limbs of a tree that took refuge in the river a few years ago. Our neighborhood Canada geese, their black heads and white necklaces in profile, rise silently to their feet. The first slides into the water followed by a waddling bunch of fluffy brown feathers with a greenish tinge. The three-week old baby goose is now the size of a small duck.

The goslings, the quintet we've been watching enjoy the islets around Hazen Island, quickly follow their first parent into the river, all in silence, while the second parent turns its head to keep us in view. I walk a few steps further up the path, taking it slow so I don't start the birds, and we watch while the family glides downstream.

They see us often as we stop and admire their admirable parenting skills. We worry when we don't see them at least once in 24 hours and anxiously count the small ones each time they appear -- 1,2,3,4,5.

It's going to be hot today but the babies are fine. What could be better that being in that cool water hanging out with Mom and Dad?