One Lone Goose

One Lone Goose
Two chickadees are feeding
On suet I have hung.
The only birds remaining now
Except for the usual few.
That hang around throughout the year.
And one lone goose,
Who for some strange reason
Has not left, this season.
Perhaps I shouldn’t feed him:
I’ve encouraged him to stay.
Still sneaking little bags of bread
To the pond, once a day.
Sentimental old fool that I am
I couldn’t really stand
To find that silly old goose
Starved and frozen on the pond,
Waiting for his mate.
She disappeared a few weeks ago,
Just before the snow.
Perhaps he is just too tired and old
To fly south once more.
Or maybe life here seems easier alone
Then to fly solo.