They flew off into the sunset loud as fuck, squawking and cackling. By the hundreds they flew toward the deepening orange of the horizon; for hours the geese were flying overhead. Those of us without wings were alerted by their overhead chattering in busy, differing crowds, never fewer than fifty per V. A gaggle of gaggles. I loved in particular watching them float around and reassemble, often merging Vs. Aligning and realigning, honking and tooting. I thought of marching bands on the field and wondered if marching bands had ever thought of geese. A graceful arrangement of honks and toots, they flew off into the sunset.