Taking the auspices
"On the 1st of November", flickr photo by xylonets. Check out all of his photos. Exquisite and haunting images.
The Augur (pl: augures) was a priest and official in the classical world, especially ancient Rome. His main role was to interpret the will of the gods by studying the flight of the birds (flying in groups/alone, what noises they make as they fly, direction of flight and what kind of birds they are), known as "taking the auspices." Wikipedia.
The secret cause of all suffering is mortality itself, which is the prime condition of life. It cannot be denied if life is to be affirmed. --Joseph Campbell.
The kids and I arrive home last night to find the heeler dogs out of their kennel and the five geese attacked and terrorized, huddled together in a bloody heap in a corner of the fence. The two old ganders look like they have taken the brunt of it. The young gander and the two female geese seem the least damaged, although blanketed in shock, the final defense of prey.
Upon further inspection, I see that one of the lungs of the largest gander, Hermano, is punctured. “Oh no. Oh no.” I am whispering, touching his broken body softly, so softly, wondering at the frailty of his flesh, bones, feathers, this fragile package that houses spirit. His once sleek back is covered in puncture wounds from those senseless, spoiled dogs, and I hate them for a minute, hate them with every fiber of my being. I detest their waste, because this carnage has nothing to do with hunger.
Hermano cannot tell me about how much he hurts, about the pain in his gander’s body. He maintains his last shred of goose dignity, holds his head aloft and looks at me through increasingly pale eyes, while the hollow, whistling sounds come with each breath.
The hot white anger and sorrow ricochet through me, leave me nearly paralyzed, but then my eleven-year-old daughter is kneeling beside me with one of the kitchen bowls held in what I see are her blood-stained hands, offering water to this dying bird, which he drinks, gratefully. This gander who always keeps watch while the rest of the gaggle sleeps in the sunshine, their graceful heads tucked beneath the cloud-gray feathers of their wings.
Geese are almost tribal in their nature, ferocious with love, and I know I am witnessing the death rattle of a warrior.
As my eleven-year-old daughter starts to tend to the wounds of the other geese, speaking softly and kindly to them, comforting them, calling each by name--I wonder at the will of the gods. I wonder at the marvelous human being this little girl is growing into. In spite of them all.
Suddenly Hermano is aloft, flying south.
