Model Goose

                I want to learn to paint water. I’ve painted trees and flowers but they are very static except perhaps when there’s a gust of wind. But the lake is a very different story. Sometimes it is perfectly still, mirroring the mountain, trees, docks and shrubs. Then suddenly there’ll be ripples that break into waves. I can see light crosshatch the lake surface—but how do I paint the reflections under the waves with light playing over them?

                I decide to start small—some weeds at the edge of the lake.  The sun plays peek-a-boo behind a large cloud making it all the more challenging. Since I’m using watercolors, I have to paint from light to dark. I cover the lake surface with a wash of silver then start on the lightest green—defining the weeds. I’m hoping a dragonfly will land on them—they often do—but not today.

                I’m busy concentrating on the leaves when I realize that I’m being watched. A Canadian Goose is sitting in the water only a foot from shore. She’s showing me her profile—giving me a one-eyed stare.

                I try to keep my movements slow—dip the brush into water then paint, carry it to the paper, gently touch the surface—expecting the goose to leave any moment. But she doesn’t.

                I don’t have any food here,” I say quietly. “But if you stay, I’ll paint you.”

                The goose shows me her other side. It’s equally attractive. I switch colors. Black neck, brown, tan, even dark red make a scalloped pattern on her back, amber at the base of her breast. The goose starts to turn away.

                “Please don’t go yet,” I call. “I haven’t quite gotten your beautiful neck.”

                She glances back at me but turns away.

                I don’t speak goose. When I was eleven, I had two white ducks for pets—just from spring to fall then my parents released them to join others in a pond.  But I learned to quack well enough to call a duck from across a lake. So now I give a couple of low quacks. My goose turns back,  takes her position and poses for me again. I finish her portrait and even her reflection.

                “Thank you,” I say.

                The goose drifts past me and waddles up on shore a few yards away.

                “Well, hello,” I say. “Sorry. I still have no food.”

                She soon returns to the water and sails out of view. I have yet to paint in the water.