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2009-11-03 - 12:19 a.m.

Just now, I was sitting in my apartment, reading, the window open a few inches, cool air crawling in, finding my feet, saying hello. Then, on top of the regular metal-on-metal noise, on top of the regular shouts or perhaps through all of it, I heard a familiar sound. That sounds animal, I thought, like the mountains or the trees or even like something breathing. I got up, put my ear to the sill, and listened. There was no sound at first, not even from the metal or the rubber or the shouting. But because sounds can hide, I kept listening. And then there it was. A song, or a chant, maybe. More silence.

And then, as if to reward my patience or curiosity, I heard it a third time and there, more clearly now, was that sound, that song. It was the sound of geese, their chatter, their talking. Flying overhead, from north to south, from Mount Royal, say, to Read, overhead and sure to be gone soon but also nestled down in these brick canyons, these tangles of fire escapes, these webs of wires and windowsills and a hundred, a thousand upturned ears, a thousand upturned cupped, patient ears.

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