Finally, after weeks of being penned, the geese and their goslings have earned a few hours of limited yard duty. They didn’t exactly go running out when the barn door swung open though. Nope, Queen Ingrid stretched out her neck, looked all around and checked for hazards.
Once Ingrid decided the sunlit barnyard contained no imminent threats, the flock clustered around the goslings, stretched out their necks and cleared the way. Within seconds, they’d lined up in a row, wing to wing, with the goslings toddling along between them. Necks still stretched, they honked and screeched their warnings and slowly strode across the ground. Every duck, chicken, and guinea ran for its life. No one messes with the geese when they’re in guard mode.
Then the goslings noticed the green stuff. And that was the end of the goose march.
The grown geese nibbled some, but mostly watched their little darlings with tender delight.
Clover, they all agreed, tastes best.
Aunt Whitey Goose always is ready with a reassuring touch . . .
. . . or a fun walk through the mud.
And she knows the way downhill to the little spring-fed creek. Life is good for little goslings who hang around with Aunt Whitey Goose.