Hudson Geese - Part 1

Read the story Hudson Geese by Bernardo Britto (below). Answer the questions in complete sentences

Hudson Geese
By Bernardo Britto
 
We were supposed to leave yesterday but the winds were too strong. 
And then this morning the snow started to fall. So, we waited until the afternoon. Until it let up and the winds died down and the skies cleared up. 
It was a beautiful winter day in the Bronx. The perfect day for a calm migration. 

*honk*
 
We had only stopped there for a day or two. On our way from Shawinigan, Quebec to the Potomac Shores Golf Club in Virginia. Where the weather is just barely warm enough. And there’s plenty of grass, with a nice view of the river.  
We had been going there ever since I can remember. And stopping here by the Hudson too. Ever since I can remember. Always the same path. But with ever changing landmarks. 
Like the diamond shape green they tore down in Queens. That had blue and orange plastic surrounding a really great lawn. Before they turned it into a parking lot.  
The Hudson is our last stop before the Potomac. And also my favorite. It’s still one of the most beautiful places in the world. It’s where I met my wife, Sherona. 

-Sherona sits in a nest. *honk*
 
It was only my second year. I saw her down by the lake. Dipping her feet in the water. And I knew then. I’d spend the rest of my life with her. Doing summers in Shanwaigan, and winters in Virginia. Eating grain and relaxing.  
And flying that same path for the rest of our lives. Along with the rest of our flock.  
Even as the skylines all kept changing. We’d stay the same. And we wouldn’t lose our way. Because it’s in our bones. It’s instinctual. Primitive. 
 
 
 
I look up at the sky a little before 3. 
Windspeed 10 knots. Temperature -6. Visibility about 10 miles. 
A perfect day to fly.  
As we take to the air, I feel a familiar emotion. 
A deep sense that this is really where I belong. More so than the lake in Shawinigan, Much more so than the golf courses on the Potomac. I belong here, in the air. Flying safely over all the noise. High above the city. 
That unintelligible mess of spires and skyscrapers. That island which became, for reasons unknown to a simple goose like me, the very center of all the world. 
This is where I belong. This is what God intended for me and my flock. Canadian Geese flying high above the Hudson. On a cool winter day in January. This is all I was ever meant to do. 
But the engines came at us at 180mph.  
 And my head hit the windshield, cracking my neck. Killing me in an instant.  
The other birds at the front didn’t have any time either. And the weaker ones in the back all got shredded just the same. All the kids. The first years. It was a complete and utter massacre. 
Among our fellow geese the story will spread that it was because I wasn’t looking. That I got distracted. Pontificating about life and my place in the universe. Among the humans around the world, the story won’t even mention our name. It’ll just say that thankfully no one was hurt. It will talk about us like an inconvenience. Like a puddle you step in on the way to work. 
And at least one groundskeeper at the Potomac Shores Golf Club will think to himself: “good riddance.”  
Because all we ever to him were pests. And all we ever were to the humans around the world was background scenery.  
 Or target practice.  
 Or alternative game meat.  
 Because they never saw us as real beings. With real feelings and emotions.  
 
*honk* 
 
With homes that get too cold. And partners that we fall in love with for the rest of our lives.  
They never even considered that there was something outside of themselves. 
 
Clint Eastwood grumbles: “action” 
 
And so, their cowboys will immortalize their story on IMAX screens with America’s Sweetheart.  
 “We did our jobs”  
But who will play Sherona? And who will play me? Who will remember the fallen fowl of that day? 
 (Who will give awards to the fallen fowl of that day) 
The birds who honked but never complained—as the humans below destroyed the Earth and changed the terrain. Turning rural fields into exclusive country clubs. 
 It was once a peaceful island. With lots of grass and great views of the river. It was once quiet. Without a single person mowing down birds in their 180 mile per hour flying contraptions. 
 Sometimes I think about him. That weird little man.  
 With his little white mustache. And I wonder: does he ever think of me? Does he ever stop to think, “I wonder what that goose was like? Who he chose as a mate and where his favorite lawn was.” Did he ever see me as a life? With a longer neck and more feathers but no less deserving of understanding and compassion? Did he ever think about what it must have been like for us? 
 Simple geese from Shawinigan, Quebec 
 His name was Sully. And he was the very last thing I saw, before I died. 
 
-Sully is surprised but nonchalant: “Whoa, birds”

Why didn’t they leave yesterday? 

Where did they start from? 

Where were they going? 

Why do you think they take the same path every time? 

What is his favorite place? 

What was the weather like? 

What do you think he’s talking about when he says “diamond shaped green

What hit them ? 

Why will the other geese think that it was his fault?

Why will the groundskeeper think, “good riddance?”  

What do people think of when they think of geese? 

Who made the movie? 

Who was flying the plane?