Mother Goose

Mother Goose


I came across a nest with three eggs. Each egg bigger times three than a chicken egg. Into the pack they went. A supper of scrambled eggs for sure.

Suddenly I saw the one who laid them. A giant goose galloped my way. Honking, wings flapping. It stopped in front of me. Little black-bead eyes stared into mine, right before it bit my leg.

“Hey, that hurt.”

Then the goose hit my arm with its wing, knocking me over.

“Why are you taking my eggs?”

“I need something for supper. I’m hungry. It’s been a long hike.”

“Go steal someone else’s babies. Don’t you know I’m endangered?”

“No you’re not. There are millions of you,” I said as I stood, rubbing my leg and my arm. And why was I talking to this bird? And was the bird really talking to me?

“Well, I’m endangered, the only one in these woods. Give back those eggs. Go find the ducks. They’re a nuisance.”

The goose eggs went back into the nest. Goose moved each one a millimeter then positioned herself over the nest.

“Now get out of here.”

“Ducks? Where?”

“I saw them earlier, the little rascals. They went that way.” The goose indicated a path with her wing. She closed those beady little goose eyes.

“Now get out of here. Or I will have to call for help.”

“So I guess you’re not the goose that laid the golden egg?”

Momma Goose stood in the nest, flapped those giant white wings. Her black-bead eyes stared at me again. Loud honks came from that orange beak. Suddenly a second goose appeared. It galloped toward me, honking and flapping wings.

That goose chased me, feathers flying, until I heard the quacking. Perhaps the ducks had a nest that was unattended.

W/C 300