A few months or so before now, we had over a dozen truckloads of fill dirt delivered, and dumped unceremoniously into the middle of our goose patrolled field. It consisted of gritty and dark clay, the kind of clumps that adhere to practically anything with a faint musty scent that would never be caught in the florescent glare of the corner boutique. As the weeks passed, and one downpour after the next began to rinse away the muck in a slow and certain rhythm, there appeared shattered and broken stones. Just a few initially, teasing up from the clay's cold grasp, not unlike flotsam adrift at sea after a tempest has passed. Striking in contrast to the muted grays, and rainbows of drab browns which blanketed or once green and vibrant field.
Moments after these jewels appeared, Wyllow set out to see what treasures now lie exposed to the elements. If you ever were to know Wyllow for more than just a day, it becomes rather obvious the passion she holds for river tumbled ore, faceted minerals, oddly weathered rocks and incidental geometric forms that earth can take when hardened into stone. With a worn three gallon bucket in hand, she is out and away to plunder the field.
Always quick to follow Wyllow anywhere an adventure may unfold, Notch and Halvies fall in locked step beside her. As they approach the imposing mounds of mud the two embden geese race ahead, positioning themselves between Wyllow and the freckled foothills that loom an imposing five and a half feet over what was once their green and lush pasture. Unsure if the newly revealed rocks pose a threat or not, they err on the side of protective caution and stand vigilante, guarding Wyllow from these unknowns.
Wyllow not given to hesitation herself, sets upon the nearest pile, excavating earthen trinkets with plum delight. Reluctant and reserved no more, our two white waterfowl begin in earnest to decipher how Wyllow makes her selections between one hard treasure from equally drab next. Trying hard to understand the choices she is making. In so doing, this has sparked a deep and troubled curiosity in Notch's heart. Sharing the passion for minerals that Wyllow harbored as her own. Our goose forgets the proud stances and sets down with a quit concentration, desperate to aide Wyllow in her tasks.
The goose awkwardly lends himself to the chore of sorting, and begins to peruse Wyllow's ever growing cache of river rocks. Many a stone is vetoed from the battered bucket as Notch picks over the chosen ones. Nimble beak pausing at every pebble, weighing it's worth with a logic that doesn't translate to well beyond the whimsy and notions of geese.
This carries on as days ebb and flow into the week. A new strategy soon emerges, rather than keeping his feathered face buried in the buckets, where mind you, there is little advantage to see any particular threats, Notch favors a reorganized approach. One that allows not only a clear view to any present dangers, but a decisive role in what rocks are given the opportunity to even breach the buckets dusty rim. Taken the administrative reins, he positions himself between Wyllow and her treasured trove, haphazardly scattered in the buckets hold.
Now close and careful inspection of the few loose stones in Wyllow's hand provides all the checks and balances needed for their fate to be cast. Feathered eyelids flash above the keen eyes. Each handful measured one by one, his decision leaving little to question whether the earthly antique has passed muster. No longer will a pebble or shard be given rest in the confines of the old buckets walls until it is tasted and rolled in Notch's fiery orange beak. Sorting out the unworthy ones, be it found ill of taste or perhaps their vexing textures, all will be graded by a goose's logic.
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