It was one of those summer days that the geese tucked into their memory stores to recount to one another on long, winter nights. They would tell about how they sat on the lawn and ate their fill of the bugs that crawled between the blades of grass. They would remind each other how wonderful the grass smelled, newly mown as it was, and brimming with white clover.
Normally, the humans filled the park. But they disappeared in the rain as if it would melt them and rain had fallen all morning long and threatened to return. So the geese had the place to themselves. And they sat on the earth amidst the waves of grass and preened themselves, and slept and dreamed, wrapped in the green luscious smell of it all, breathing it into their hearts, bathing in joy.