Not wanting to flop around abed like a burbot on hook, he stepped out on the porch bathed in moonlight.
He saw a plump of geese circling high up. There’s no sound of their wings flapping. Not in a strict flock echelon, they’re tumbling about, doing loop the loop, as if in a courting spree, their wingtips sparkling with pearly beams.
Rapt in their frolicking, a sudden realisation dawned: At this hour, the world lying comatose, he’s the one being let into this spectacle. Isn’t it a message from above asking him to spread cheer, be it what it would?