Actually it was a goose. Three of them, really. I have lists of wonderful adventures I'd like to have, like exploring the arboredum or taking a roadtrip to California. This is nothing like that, but one small joy I have is sitting on the banks of a lake and tossing bread pieces to the ducks. Well, the ducks were scared of me so I made friends with the geese.
I had a few minutes to spare before I picked up my friend to help me with my taxes (gag, he's a strange, brave man). I ran (literally) into Target, nabbed a bag of cheap bread, paid for it of course, and steered my way to the parking spots by the Island at Northwestern.
Then I realized how upsurd it might look to go waltzing down the path with five slices of Target's generic in my left hand. Luckily, my only audience was a cuddling couple on a high bench and a forlorn dark haired kid who looked like he was about to get married (and wasn't liking it), I'm not sure.
I padded past the beached dock, around the mucky sinkhole following the edge of the lake, and heard the thud of my slipons across the old wooden bridge. Forgetting the goose poop that was probably caking to the soles of my shoes, I set about tearing small pieces of bread and lobbing them at the waterfowl that were quickly scattering in my presence.
The ducks weren't having it, but soon a hungry little goose began to nibble at the chunks of floating white that had accumulated in the water. I thought it would have made a perfect cinemagraphic scene, expect the part where I almost ripped my arm out throwing bread hard enough to reach the geese.