Icelandic geese at Southport, England

Here, where the canted shore lies almost level so that the tide outruns the fastest runner, lacing the sand with glimmering pools and shallows, here come the rosy-legged Icelandic geese faithfully, each November. Whitely, they sleep between the nacred pools like princes and princesses from a saga, the while our autumn shivers into winter and our sun sinks, a dying ember. But when, in March, the climbing orb rekindles the green and gold endeavor of our spring, hoarse-voiced, the geese arise; the streaming wedges hasten away to keep their icy nuptials upon the native rock they all remember.

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