It is spring-time on Harris Creek, and one's thoughts naturally turn to love and hate; it is mating time. Our two resident swans have already done the deed and are preparing the nesting sight. She will sit on eggs that will not hatch, because some god has willed it so, and applied a magic potion to the eggs that conceals from the swans the fact that nothing is going to come of this. She will sit and he will cruise the creek attacking any intrusion of other swans, into that body of water that is their homeland. And those geese who for some reason refuse to return to Canada, are also in a mating mode and will become a particular mad preoccupation with his Royal Highness, the male swan.

The swans and geese are unconcerned with sharing this body of water outside the window of my hermitage, until this time of year, when warfare breaks out, just like clock work. His Royal Highness is not only in a protective mood, he also desires to kill the goslings who will, unlike his own heirs, perform an entry into his realm. I have observed this tragicomedy for many springs now, and only the details vary. The geese are not innocent victims, they actively harass the harried king. The pitched battles go on day after day, until such time as it becomes evident to the swans, that nothing has come of this and it is time to return to world they occupied before this madness began.