Justin.
    A little tyke on his little trike, making his way in a world he knew nothing about. A five-year-old, my five-year-old on our nightly trek to trigger remote controlled spotlights that illuminated driveways and garage entrances in the back alleys of our neighborhood home in Forest Hills, New York, just a few clicks east – as the goose flew – over the once great city named Manhattan, a place more known to most as simply, New York City.
    Justin was enamored with the magic, the childlike charm of spotlights illuminating him on center stage as he pedaled past. For me, forty-five at the time, living in a world I thought I had known enough about, it was a moment of peace, tranquility and pure innocence. Disney could not have provided the pure, unadulterated joy of a child simply engaging sensors that set his senses alight.
    Alive.
    I smiled.
    A lot.
    A lot more than I do now in these troubled times in which we remain entrenched.
    Once upon a time, we knew peace, and upon that time, I believe that we never truly acknowledged that amity as we could have,
    Geese are peace.
    Untroubled, it seems, they travel in harmony, sunshine bound in synchrony.
    A fair-weathered friends symphony.

    One April eve as the sun had nearly set and the garage lights provided our light at nearly night, Justin pedaled on, his eyes aglow with the wonders of technology that made him a magician, I looked above to the fading pink sky, my eyes alight with wonder as an endless cadre of geese returned home, signaling the onset of summer, my forever favorite season.
    For me, there is no greater peace than the music of geese.