The tip of the flock came over our house on the north end of town as my wife and I looked up from the deck to the high-pitched cacophony riding the northwest wind over our neighborhood. A blur of blue and white in a pair of overlapping vees of light geese organized as the gales pushed them along, likely lifting off from some low resting spot adjacent to the nearby river, sending them to the east to possibly find their breakfast in a field outside of town. With all the area’s snow melted, save for the scattered flakes in the air around us, it was likely the best destination for a meal on their stop over to scrape up a few beans or grains left over from last fall’s harvest.

While not a goose hunter, I’ve always savored the moments of migration with the zeal and excitement I’d assume a die hard waterfowler would. Skies filled with gray Canadas moving out during deer hunting season, mixtures of blue and white light geese turning gold autumn cornfields alive until a cold snap sends the last ones through, and their return each spring heralding the long-awaited thaw and the end of winter. The timing of both such annual movements always connects with memorable times outdoors behind the reticle of a sighted-in rifle in late autumn, or perhaps with the chilly exhilaration of the first cold-water whir of a spinning reel in my hands after ice out.

And, like so many of the flocks that move through in fall and spring, the one overhead was so much more than just those first two groups, as the tail of one vee connected to another one coming over the neighbor’s rooftop. A few more lines tied them together and the honking intensified and five phalanxes followed the eastward movement toward the blue water tower on the hill behind the stand of tall pines just visible a couple of miles down the road. On and on it went. More vees, more lines, and intensifying honking continued until the far horizon of gray clouds to our east was connected by a spiderweb of light geese blowing across the entire viewable area to the space over the river valley to our west. We kept guessing and betting that the next group to come overhead would be the last, but it wasn’t. The joy of spring’s return to the region was endless, if not in number as the massive flock did eventually taper off, then at least in spirit as the honks reverberated over our little subdivision.

For a good eight minutes we watched them come over and fade off out of view into the deep silver of the morning cloud cover, the last trailing strand of birds finally vanishing from sight. How many there were in the stopover group of light geese we had witnessed, I couldn’t be sure. It numbered in the tens of thousands most likely and was happiness for our souls buoyed on twice that many wings as we both watched the sky clear of the visitors.

They likely won’t stay long, with the forecast up and down over the next few days and no snow line of any consequence to be found until a few hundred miles north of town. With that fact too, they likely won’t be the last group of light geese to book an overnight stay in the area either, with plenty of vacancy in the open fields and an early spring upon us hastening the migration this year … in our outdoors.