The goose-haters drove off all but one goose on the pond, a beige/brownish goose with a bright orange beak and feet. It has the loudest, most plaintive call I've ever heard. This thing squawks at all hours of the day and night, over and over and over. I don't think I've slept through the night since it arrived last spring. I'd be cheering the goose-haters on if they could get rid of this thing.
Maybe it knows it's Christmas again. Maybe it is crying over another year spent without a mate. Maybe the Christmas lights and the parties and the forced gaiety make it sad, too.