He liked the routine of his days. The hum and flow of life without others to answer to. Each spring, summer and early fall, all he did was “mow da lawn.” He smiled as he thought of his French military buddies making fun of him and calling him “Billy Mow DaLawn.” He hummed in time with his mower motor as he headed off toward the first green. Cresting the small hill, he looked down upon a flock of Canada geese sitting in a circle.

Sitting in a circle with their necks pointing outwards. Sitting like bison do when protecting their young against aggressors. Billy couldn’t believe his eyes. He put his mower into stealth mode and moved silently toward the geese.

There must be sixty of them, he thought. He had never seen this formation. He had never seen geese behave like this. Not that he was a hunter. Not that he really understood nature, but he knew a bit of this and that. And of this he was certain: geese did not sit in bison circles.

He eased his mower toward the circle. Not one of the geese moved. Not one goose let loose a honk. Not one of them lifted its head from under its wing. Billy didn’t understand it. He was confused. He felt like he was in a bad dream where everything falls in slow motion. He touched his left pocket to make sure he had his cellphone. How was he going to explain what he’d seen when he called his wife?

Here he was, a decorated soldier, a man who had served his country, who had sat through raids and had had spitfire artillery splashing all around him. And now here he sat frozen, a couple yards away from a flock of geese sitting in a circle and acting as passive as Gandhi. He didn’t know what to do. Play Duck-Duck-Goose with them?

He started to whistle “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” Not one goose lifted its head. He started to sing “Oh When the Saints Come Marching In” and not one goose lifted its head. Billy decided to stand on his machine and flap his arms, calling out to them in a language he was sure they understood.

“Honk. Honk!” Not one goose lifted its head.

Finally, he jumped off his machine and decided to take a run at them. He put his head down and dug his right foot into the thick Kentucky blue grass and pushed his body forward with his head wrapped inside his tattooed forearms.

“AAARRRRGGGHHH!” he growled, and when he looked up, he saw the geese taking a few steps. They were cluttering his daybreak. He stood in awe as all sixty of them swelled into the beautiful first light canvas of red and soft blue. He felt a tear slip from one eye and sighed.

What a beautiful sight. What a gorgeous start to his day. If he were a religious man, he would have called it a blessing.