The Wild Geese at Lake Forest

Dustin's graduation party was held at his "neighborhood association," a term that, I suspect, was passed down to him from his parents. Though the Wens may employ this euphemism to distance themselves from the supercilious stigma attached to "country club," I was not fooled in the least by the guarded gate surround the delectable, well-manicured grounds.

"I'm here for the Wen's graduation party," I told the gatekeeper. As I spoke this shibboleth, an intemperate amount of pleasure welled up within my breast at being admitted into the "association." The place was redolent with entitlement and exclusivity--in other words, this was my kind of place. [A friend once commented that I am snobbish, but in my heart I know I'm above that; the truly elite are never snobs.]


[The selection of venue for Dustin's graduation notwithstanding, it should be noted that the Wens are actually a very down-to-earth family--the kind of warm, generous, and middle brow family one would be more likely to encounter in middle America, rather than south County.]

Even better than the swanky aura was the lake in which you could ride paddle boats surrounded by semi-wild geese that trail you if you offer them crumbs (which of course I did). See the goose in the first picture? Isn't it beautiful? It's feathers are so sleek and silk-looking. So lovely, in fact, were the geese that they reminded me of WB Yeats' famous poem, "The Wild Swans at Coole." I momentarily considered trying my hand at poetry to imitate Yeats' style and mood, but even I am not that self-delusionally arrogant.

Anyway, anyone who is as easily as enrapt by a beautiful water scene as I am should not miss the opportunity to see the geese on the lake just before twilight. Their graceful silhouettes on the inky-mirror of the water, all in relief against the peach-colored rays of the setting sun weaving through the trees--spectacular!

WB Yeats
The Wild Swans at Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty Swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?