I’d be here on the wetlands photographing mountain obscuring fog obscuring and tide flattened grass if not for the geese. Minutes from the car I spot a good size gang of Canadians feeding just across a small stream from us. Aki and I respect their space, keeping on our side of the stream, far enough away to avoid flushing them. In the process we inconvenience a pair of ravens who make way for us by gliding with their feathered feet down, twenty feet from the trail. 

The wetlands Canada geese, like many of their cousins in the rest of America, no longer migrate.  They have made themselves common by hanging around, filling the air with off-key singing, and covering the ground with their ropey scat. I still enjoy seeing their white cheeked heads on top of long black necks.  While admiring this local gang, another flight of Canadians, maybe 20, lifts off from Douglas Island and flies towards the locals and then makes a series of wide circles around Aki. I could be holding a tether to the lead goose. On their third flight around us I get it. Aki and I are standing on their intended landing field. Before we can move further out into the wetlands, they give up and fly to a spot on the other side of the already feeding geese.