PENNSYLVANIA — A gaggle of geese threads its way slowly up the Clarion River, paddling against a lazy and shallow, but persistent, mid-summer current. There are 10 geese, all mature. Long, elegant black necks, white wings. No fuzzy goslings.

They zig and zag, snatching bugs from the air and small fish from the river. Between the feasting and the faffing and the current, their progress is slow.

One by one, they follow the leader into the leeward side of a small rock outcropping. In the calm, they gather strength for the arduous upstream paddle ahead. Deeper, faster water awaits the geese.

It is a short break. In human terms, they barely catch their breath. The lead goose is imbued with an unassailable sense of mission. This will be no lolly-gaggle cruise. He strikes out into the current, and the gaggle falls into a ragged formation behind him. There is a distinct air of reluctance to it all, like, maybe paddling upstream is not the best use of goose energy.

If mutiny were in the air, you would not know it from the lead goose. Here is a bird of supreme confidence. Once he set out, he never, ever, looked back to see who is following. He should have. Some of the stragglers are exhibiting negative body language, clear misgivings. Ruffled feathers, metaphorically speaking.

Upstream, the odd honk or two announces the arrival of a second gaggle. By comparison, this is a party cruise. Seven geese gleefully floating at speed, with the current. An effortless jaunt downstream. If geese wore Hawaiian shirts and backward ballcaps, and sang Jimmy Buffett songs, this would be the bunch.

As the Rowdy Seven came into view, the leader of the Upstream 10 freezes in place, gripping the shallow bottom with his webbed feet. His followers come to a screeching halt behind him. Like statues in mid-stream, in a brilliant bit of passive-aggressive behavior, they become an obstacle to the free-floaters, who, true to character, simply adjust their course, ever so slightly, and breeze by.

Neither group exchanges glances, nor insults, nor greetings. Nobody makes loose goose talk or eye contact. Except for the last two Upstreamers. They are carrying on their own honk-to-honk exchange that sounds suspiciously like a marital spat. All while drifting slowly away from the pack.

They come to a meeting of minds, and a decision is made. One paddles back to the Upstream 10, now nine, and one starts drifting toward the Rowdy Seven.

Meanwhile, the seven pull up behind an exposed flat rock and crowd atop it for a better look.

The breakaway goose starts honking. At first, they are well-spaced honks. As if appealing to the others to join her. The honks grow in density and intensity, as if pleading her case. The pack starts to honk back.

Something like this, I imagine:

“Join me!”

“No!”

“Join me! Join me!”

“No! No! No!”

“No more upstream!”

“Upstream is cool!”

“We’re not getting anywhere!”

“We’re eating bugs!”

And so it goes. Quite the debate, even if the content lacks depth and compelling arguments. (Nobody ever accused geese of possessing strong debating skills.)

The seven geese on the rock seem immensely entertained. They are honking encouragement to the breakaway goose and, apparently, some uncalled-for insults at her former companions.

Meanwhile, the lead goose has not ruffled a feather, has not budged an inch, has not entered the debate, has not once turned to see what all the honking is about. Confident in his mission and his leadership, he remains rigidly pointed upstream, as if fixated on destiny.

Confident in the loyalty of his geese, he does not see that the rear echelon is wavering. Two or three more are drifting off, tentatively, toward the breakaway goose.

On the rock, the seven free-floaters honk raucously – more jeers, taunts, and heavy flirtations.

The lead goose comes to his senses and barks loudly – if you can rightly say a goose can bark. His powerful, sharp, and short honk gets everyone to take a gander in his direction.

The few stragglers scurry back into tight formation. The gang on the rock grows quiet and attentive. Here, they realize, is a serious goose with iron-clad feathers.

Without a look back, the lead goose lifts his wings out of the water and begins to flap, flinging glistening droplets into the air. They sparkle in the sun’s rays like little jewels. In a wink, he is off in a low flight upstream with all nine geese, in crisp formation.

The Rowdy Seven on the rock are awestruck. That was one bad-ass lead goose. Overcome with FOMO, they rise as one and quickly close ranks with the gaggle.

But as everyone knows, a gaggle of geese in flight is known as a skein.

And because I like you so much, I won’t make a really bad pun out of the word skein.

But if you think of one, let me know.

The image above was generated by Artificial Intelligence, based on the text of this post.