This is the 70th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
Sixty-Four comes asking for bread. I turn her away. She should know better than to ask at this time.
Thirty-Nine and Seventy-Two show up next, and they’re more persistent than their sister. I chase them away. It’s not time.
The sun hasn’t risen yet, but there’s a faint glow on the horizon. I can hear Sixty-Four downstairs, riling everyone up. I try to ignore it. I roll over in bed. I cover my head with my pillow.
But the ruckus becomes too much. I tear down the stairs and out the back door. They’re crowding the porch, flapping their wings, and honking like a swarm of choking clowns. I watch the neighbors’ lights switch on, one by one. There’s a fair bit of distance between our houses—a perk of rural living—but not enough, apparently.
Jean appears at the fence line, tugging her robe tighter. “Again?”
I nod as Sixty-Four breaches the perimeter of the porch. Waddling across the deck, she slips into house again through the dog door. I swear I can hear her laughing.
“Tell me again,” Jean says, yawning. “Why did you want to start a goose rescue? Or is it geese rescue?” She waves herself off, yawning again. “Never mind. Too early.”
Jean retreats as I sigh and open their feed bin.
Miles Away 