Tuesday I had to leave off reading Les Misérables in the middle of the insurrection, at a wine shop, in the middle of a conversation. Work had intervened. Yesterday and today I had no time to get back there. Lately I miscalculate the hours I'll have available for reading, and squander precious minutes checking headines in The New York Times: Have they capped the well yet? Has there been another bomb? A new discovery? A scandal? Like bird killing in Brooklyn. 400 Canada geese--Canada geese which I remember when they were rare and a sight to see!--transported from Prospect Park to a gas chamber. Except they haven't been frozen for serving to someone, anyone, some holiday soon, I approve; even though their bread scrap diet wouldn't have done much for their quality of flesh or flavor.
I see this as a sign--that a massive and controversial goose culling feels good--that I'm really getting older now. This vacancy relieves me, the return of stillness to a pond I haven't visited in months relaxes me; the lawns and waters, refreshed by two days of rain, must be cleaner already, and smaller species feel they've got a chance again to hear themselves think. The geese sont gone; innocent for sure yet being so many they made for a big bully. A park bully, swept off to oblivion. What kind of society gives out food stamps and then lets itself get overrun by game birds? Which when it finally kills it throws away? Back at home I surf the internet, descrying the outlines of a plan that feeds a lot of hungry people--once or twice, anyway. Not to mention those fine fat-roasted potatoes on the side.