Simon lands on the goose and it lets out a honk as his full weight crushes it into the grass. He rolls over and grabs it by the neck, then struggles back to his feet and swings it around and around, like a happy parent holding a child by the hands and twirling it with its body turning and turning in the fall air. Simon feels his grip slipping and sees blood on his hands. He lets his arms drop and the goose’s head falls from its ragged neck. The body lands in the goose shit, rolls and stops. Simon tosses the head next to the goose’s body. Its wings are broken, feathers stick out at improbable angles from its body, no longer part of the geometry of flight. Feathers float down lazily from where they hang suspended above the battlefield.

“I think he broke my nose,” say Simon.

Blood drips down his chin and he tries to suck in air. It feels like splinters are being driven up his nostrils. He hacks and spits out a clot of blood. He cheeks are raw and a bruise has already formed where the goose bit him.

T-Man starts to move out from behind the tree.

“What’s going on here?”

Simon and T-Man turn. Two policemen walk briskly down the path.

“Aw, shit,” says T-Man.

He turns and runs back up to Lake Street.

Simon stands planted next to the goose.

The police walk stiffly along the asphalt path, pause as if trying to decide if they want to get their shoes clotted with goose dung, and walk up to Simon. They look down at the goose. One of them looks back up at Simon.

“You kill that goose?”

Simon’s ears ring. He wipes the blood off his chin with his coated shoulder. “I hope so.”

His voice feels small against the throaty honks of the surviving geese.

“He sure did a number on you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

The policemen rock in their shoes in unison as if listening to the same inaudible song.

“You know it’s illegal, don’t you?” The cop’s voice comes out in almost a drawl.

“Really?”

“We’re bringing you in.”

“For this?” says Simon, looking down at the dead goose.

“Yeah, for this.”

Simon looks at the cops and then back at the goose. It hasn’t moved.

“But it was self-defense.”

“Sure.”

“It was.”

“Uh-huh. Come on, let’s go.”

They turn and started walking to the car idling in the parking lot.

“Don’t suppose I get to keep the goose?” asks Simon.

“Nope,” says one cop, “don’t suppose you do. It ain’t dinner anymore. It’s evidence.”

“I was just protecting myself,” says Simon.

The cop looks back over his shoulder at Simon. “Don’t look like you did much of a job of it.”

The other cop laughs out a puff of steam.