October 10, 2001

A month ago, I was driving down the street, listening to to the news, saddened by the cycle of death and pain, the cycle of history.

I don't remember where I was going. Perhaps I wasn't going anywhere. Maybe I was going to work. That's probably it, something rather mundane.

Sad because everyone keeps talking about a new age, humankind getting better, wiser, and I actually bought it for a while.

Then, I had to stop, because a goose was in the middle of the road, waddling across to Lake Merritt. Its compatriots saw the opportunity, and followed. Soon, a line of geese stretched across the road, walking single file, at a leisurely pace. They stopped when one of their member stopped ahead of them, and those behind rushed to catch up if they were slow.

Even when cars behind me started to honk, the geese paid us no mind, crossing the street like Oaktowners, ignoring the traffic lights.

And I realized that life would go on. That is also the cycle of history.

That, and no one tried to run the geese over.