Wow! This brings back memories.

I lived in Ayreshire, but I don't remember the geese there - it was the rooks, settling down in the trees across the river Doone, as the sun went down, that mean Scotland to me.

But the Geese - Ah! Hearing the wild geese every fall, crying and calling as they flew overhead in the windy heavens. In eastcoast America, I never lived anywhere they did not pass, and I always felt that they were calling to some part of me to fly with them. I would literally heaken to them, indoors or out, when nobody else noticed the distant gabble.

And then there was one time that I recall vividly, that was like a scene out of a movie. There I was, at Pennsic, a medieval reenactment event with a cast of thousands held in Pennsylvania. In those days, the area where the fighters armed and armored themselves before battle was a large, sloping grassy field with woods on all sides and a lake at its foot past some trees.
So, there I was, standing above the arming field, on a fresh, beautiful early morning in August, holding someone's spare arms for him, files of warriors marching past on the road to the battlefield, the clatter of armor as others armed and drew up in formation, hundreds of us gathered in that field in pursuit of our consensual reality, our "dream", and a flock of geese came in, low and slow and very loud, and flew over the field in the direction of the battlefield. I don't know how to explain it, but it was perfect. As one might say in the parlance of that group, _that_ was "living the dream"!

Winterchild