Eek! I do not know what I, my co-workers, or the Tanasbourne area may have done, but someone, some vast, perhaps even ineffable someone, is angry with us. First the light in the area dimmed, casting the thrice-washed winter greens of the conifers into more vivid depths of color. Then, far off, we heard the sound of thunder—a sound almost forgotten since those days in the Midwest and in Wyoming, where such noises were expected, accepted, and as loud as the trump of doom. Then, as we gathered by the windows to watch, wondering what might befall, sheets of hail appeared all at once, pouring down and intensifying until even the awe-struck spectator had to laugh at the sheer exuberant fury of it. Then, as it abated, and reluctantly started its rattling diminuendo to a heavy rain, I saw against the evergreens a pure white feather floating softly down, undriven by the hail that surrounded it. Gently it descended and nestled among the bushes.

I think the thunder-gods smote a goose.