The Cloud Of Wild Canadian Geese

The day was chill and somber.  Overhead was a gray expanse of cloud, slightly stirred, however, by a breeze; so that a gleam of flickering sunshine might now and then be seen a its solitary play along the path (159).

On page 110 the setting is depicting Holling’s walk home from school. The weather produced dark clouds prepared to rain, “Gray clouds whose undersides had been shredded” (Schmidt 110). Also, with ominous clouds leaving behind an awfully cold mist that hung for what

The purpose of this paper is to explore available research on the overpopulation of the Snow Goose on the North American continent. The snow goose has been rising in population since the middle of the century and has been escalating so much it is destroying their natural habitat. Wildlife managers have just recently begun to implement strategies to combat this problem. Mainly through the use of hunters the managers are trying to curb the population growth.

We had not gone a rod when we found ourselves in a heap, in a heavy drift of snow. We took hold of each others’ hands, pulled ourselves out, got into the road, and the cold north wind blew us down the road a half mile south, where the Strelow boys and John Conrad had to go west a mile or more. When they reached a bridge in a ravine, the little fellows sheltered a while under the bridge, a wooden culvert, but Robert, the oldest, insisted that they push on thru the blinding storm for their homes. In the darkness they stumbled in, and by degrees their parents thawed them out, bathed their frozen hands, noses, ears and cheeks, while the boys cried in pain. “My brothers and I could not walk thru the deep snow in the road, so we took down the rows of corn stalks to keep from losing ourselves ’till we reached our pasture fence. Walter was too short to wade the deep snow in the field, so Henry and I dragged him over the top. For nearly a mile we followed the fence ’till we reached the corral and pens. In the howling storm, we could hear the pigs squeal as they were freezing in the mud and snow. Sister Ida had opened the gate and let the cows in from the field to the sheds, just as the cold wind struck and froze her skirts stiff around her like hoops. The barn and stables were drifted over when we reached there. The roaring wind and stifling snow blinded us so that we had to feel thru the yard to the door of our house. “The lamp was lighted. Mother was walking the floor, wringing her hands and calling for her boys. Pa was shaking the ice and snow from his coat and boots. He had gone out to meet us but was forced back by the storm. We stayed in the house all that night. It was so cold that many people froze.” Although most of the information that was collected or the stories that were told were in South Dakota, Nebraska, North Dakota the temperatures took

Canada geese are generally found in North America. However, the specific geographic range of the Canada goose varies depending on the season, as well as the species’ migration pattern. For the majority of the year, Canada geese are found in more northern areas of North American and during colder months, they migrate south. This migratory pattern generally results in the species travelling to Mexico or the southern portion of the United States where they remain until the spring (“Canada Goose”, 2011).

“fall of the year they penetrated a weird lake country, sad and silent, where wildfowl had been, but where then there was no life nor sign of life—only the blowing of chill winds, the forming of ice in sheltered places, and the melancholy rippling of waves on lonely beaches.

The lake darkens as the ominous clouds race across the sky, as black as the devil’s soul, and swallows the bliss-blue complexion of the sky faster than you can blink. The world has abruptly become cellar-dark and the heavens above look to collapse down upon me. A deafening wind runs over the landscape like a thousand horses, the noise of the raindrops their clattering hoofs. The threatening force of the gales knocks and blows the trees in precarious ways, almost as though, if it had wanted to, the wind could blow them away as if they were but feathers, not heavy pines. Lighting lights up the sky like liquid, golden ore streaks being forged into forks up above. Wriggling and writhing with the pain of their own existence. Flashing once, twice, three times, polished and glossy like the cold prongs of the apocalypse. Shaking myself from my weather-caused trance, I hurry for shelter under a nearby fern tree. Staring deep into the blackness of the storm I wonder whether I will ever see that bliss-blue appearance

The trees in the shallowest part of the field are wrought with texture. Every shadow, every needle, every piece of bark is beautifully lit and emphasized. The contrast of the image is full scale. The whitecaps in the river and the falling water are amazingly white. The blacks of the shadows being cast by such direct sunlight are very dark. The rainbow and the part of the image behind the rainbow are gray, as well as much of the face of the mountain. This overall tonality provides a lovely balance to the

Once they were there, the quarter-mile trek to their place had to be made. It was a small, circular clearing in the cone-bearing woods. The area around the fire pit was dirt, for safety reasons. On the outskirts of the copper-colored dirt were five large, round logs arranged in a circle for sitting. Just a few feet beyond the logs, the forest began again in copious amounts of vegetation and growth, like an untamed lion. That night’s weather was just right. The cool air was

Strutting through the familiar, gate worn by time, I spread my arms, taking in the saccharine aroma of the fresh grass. The remaining glimmers of the sun glisten on every blade that peeks through the moist soil, composing a sea of sparkling beauty, only comparable to a poem. The meadow is breathtaking this evening, as the sun sets behind the trees in the distance, leaving a glow of pinks, peaches, ambers, and crimsons behind as if a bowl of fruit had exploded in the sky.

WILLIAM stood at the crest of a valley and stared down over his orchard. The trees stretched out in both directions in long, perfectly straight rows. The sun cut a path through thin, wispy tendrils of fog, and shimmered off morning dew that clung to the leaves and grass; the entire orchard glimmered. The apple trees reminded William of his former students at Beacon Academy, attentively arrayed before him, hanging on his every word. A crisp, late-October breeze swept across the valley, offering a subtle hint at the approaching winter chill. The trees were bursting with red and green apples, the branches bowing under the weight of the bounty. Men and women moved methodically between the rows, using three point ladders to reach the upper branches.

There were fields filled with bountiful flowers and yellows as bright as the sun at midday. A murder of black birds lay on the horizon of the small field, sitting on a rickety fence as if it was their only home. The middle of the field was a lush green that seemed to radiate and sunlight and brightness throughout.

The poem “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver connects the both the natural and human world as it compares human life to the travels of wild geese. Touching on the landscapes of the natural world and emotions faced by the average person; Oliver manages to use devices such as tone, metaphors and descriptive images to convey a message that helps a person view life from a different perspective. Oliver makes it clear that the relationship between the wild and the human is coexistence; where one universe continues on if the parallel seems to have stopped. Thus, Oliver is able to move the reader on a comforting journey as she entangles the natural world and human world, showing that the natural world has more

Magnificent, heavenly light filters through the wispy clouds, signifying a new day. The thin clouds slowly drift apart, presenting a beautiful sky beneath. Speaking out to me, the sky seems to know every one of my thoughts, my dreams, my darkest fears. The sky is but a canvas of light, creating a new picture within seconds. Weaving a story through the delicate clouds, the picture grows beyond the expanse of sky. The colors splay before me, painfully beautiful and simple. Pink hues morph into vibrant purples as they blend with the beautiful blues. The glittering stretch of sea shines before my eyes. With every new wave, the light from above whispers promises of riches and sparkling diamonds. The light breeze that kisses the sea sends the twinkling light back into the air above.

The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.