The sunsets here are some of the best I’ve ever seen. I’m close to the mountains. When Grandfather Sun lowers, he lights up the peaks in this magenta glow. Everyone comes outside to watch and wonder. It’s nice to feel beauty through other people’s eyes.

A transition story

As the sun went down last evening, I was walking along the Yellowstone. From across the bridge, I saw a bright white duck. There’s not casually ducks, typically, and definitely not bright white, hanging alone on the river. It was standing around some young girls. They were camping in the KOA. You can walk in and out of the KOA freely.

The bright white duck was striking against a backdrop of a sunkissed sky, mountains, and the river. Anything that striking just pulls me in. It’s so magnetic, I almost can’t stand it. A big white duck surrounded by girls. It’s poetic without even trying. It’s compelling in the way something out of place is. A moment you could both dream in and only catch once. It’s beauty and innocence and story. Who are you, and why are you here? I walked over.

“Is this your duck?” I asked.

They replied, “It’s not. Don’t you think it might be a goose?”

“I’m not really sure. I’ve never seen a white goose. Aren’t only ducks white?”

“It’s just so big to be a duck.”

“And it’s all alone.” I paused. “I’ve only seen those in town before. I’ve never seen one out here by the water.”

A hawk flew overhead, and the goose shuddered.

“Oh, he’s smart,” I said.

“Let’s give him some popcorn,” the girls looked to their mother for approval.

“That’s probably why he’s here.”

The white goose didn’t look like it could fend for itself. Hanging around people like they’re friends, shuddering at the hawk flying overhead, almost posing for my camera. Being close to being able to pet the duck meant either that this guys been here before, or he’s gotten lost from his owner. I waited around for something to happen. Maybe he’ll swim off or start attacking.

I thought, he’s too white to be wild in the summer, too soft to be on its own. I thought of my own rewilding. Will we respond to love less or more when we’re on our own? Will we always still be startled by the shadows that pass?

I put a story on the goose that someone left it. That it was someone’s farm animal friend dropped off at the river. My heart started to debate what the duck needed and how we could help. The heart wants to go outside its body. Will it make up any story just to do so? I feel silly and tell myself to stop. It’s a duck. When did it become such a bad thing to want to help something that looks helpless?

When I got home, I did some research. Turns out, it was a goose. It’s likely an Ebden Goose. They’re pure white in color and often kept as domesticated geese or pets on farmlands. We’re surrounded by farmland.

In Celtic mythology, white animals are often seen as otherworldly messengers, and the white goose could be one of these. Geese are migratory, which makes them liminal creatures, moving between land, sky, and water. In the old stories, that made them symbolic of spirits crossing thresholds, like death, rebirth, or major life shifts. A white goose, especially one alone, might be seen as a sign from the otherworld. A reminder to pay attention, to honor the in-between.

They were also tied to the sacred feminine, with goddesses like Brigid and Rhiannon sometimes associated with birds that guided or healed. And even though they look soft, geese are fierce protectors. So a lone white goose might not be just some lost farm animal. It’s a spiritual symbol of protection, transition, and divine presence.

It’s easy to not be with the magic of the world. But when you do, a lone goose actually becomes something pure, telling, transmitting, and divine. They don’t hate like we do. They’re just pure in their energy of being. And animals are becoming increasingly rare in the world. From species going extinct to habitat degradation. It means seeing and being with happenings in nature become even stronger, even more pronounced for the magic they hold, the messages they bring, and the meaning they imbue.

“Let’s give him a name,” the mother of the girls said.

“Maybe white boy,” one of the girls said.

“How about Marlin?” I replied.

“Hmm, no, we like White Boy.”

I laughed. White Boy it is then. I said my goodbyes and walked home.

Love,
Val