“Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last.”
-Mary Oliver, Snow Geese
On a balmy afternoon in December, it’s common to see Canada geese–close to one hundred in this particular flock–nibbling the thawed earth with gusto. I considering heading back to the woods bordering Midland Avenue here at Tibbetts Brook Park, my local birding spot.
But the clouds over the field are clearing, sky a sharp blue. Past the field is Tibbetts’ crown jewel: a lake encircled by a 1.5-mile paved path popular among joggers. The path connects to the South County Trailway, part of New York State’s 750 Empire State Trail. It’s home to a range of wildlife, from hares to herons. I decide to cross to the lake.
As I walk, a blue jay shrieks somewhere. A raptor circles in the distance, barely visible against the late afternoon sun. My eyes fall to the Canada geese blanketing the field. That’s when I see it: a flash of white. There is an interloper in the flock.
The goose is mostly white, with a black-tipped tail. It’s eating with ferocity, barely lifting its head long enough for me to snap clear photos. At last it raises its head and pauses a moment. Click. Finally!
Uploading the photo to the Merlin Bird ID, I discover the striking stranger is a snow goose. Snow geese are known visitors to the New York City area during the late fall and winter, and are similar to the Ross’ goose. (The Ross’ goose is smaller, with a stubbier bill.)
Clusters of power walkers and joggers race by, either unaware or uninterested in the sight. But as a beginning birder, spotting this relatively common but new-to-me species sparks a thrill. (In birder terms, we call such sightings “lifers.”)
I spot the snow goose twice more before the holidays. Each time it stays in the center of its adopted flock. Then, somewhere between Christmas and New Year’s, it’s gone. On each visit the last few days, I’ve scanned the icy fields in hopes of a reappearance. But so far, there is no trace.
A Parallel World 
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