Right now, my terrace house sits directly under a flight path, belonging not to planes but to skeins and skeins of honking Canada geese. As reliable as the first misty mornings and the slow shedding of the trees, I hear that familiar harsh call as the geese pass overhead. My view of the V shapes is often cut short by the built-up limitations of my urban view, yet they are a wonder nonetheless, their shadows occasionally forming a shifting echo on the pavement below.
Most of the Canada geese here are happily resident in the UK and no longer migrate, but come autumn, with their babies big enough to fly now, an old restlessness seems to stir in them. My neighbourhood is sandwiched between areas of marshland, and the geese have begun to move more between the best roosting and feeding sites, back and forth each day, some venturing farther afield to look for new territory, honking their movement with eager, open mouths.
