Wild things

“That goose looks like it’s waiting for something,” says Pete. We’re at Ponyfish Island, huddled against the mizzle, drinking mulled wine.

It looks like an escapee from the Collingwood Children’s Farm, the massive white goose that is skirting the riverbank near the footbridge. It's not so much looking for food as expecting it to fall out of the sky or something. 

We go back to talking about how best to get through Crown to reclaim some old Gold Class vouchers that are going out of date. And when our eye drifts to the river again, there’s a middle-aged woman standing on the bank in her polar fleece with a plastic bag full of bread, feeding the goose one slice at a time.

“Too bad if that goose is coeliac,” I say. 

It’s like they’re the only two critters in the world. She talks to it softly, her mousey bob damp at the ends where it pokes out from under her hood. It feels like the telly and the heater are still going in her apartment and she’s come out to look something wild in the eye. Just for a minute. We watch until the goose eats his fill and the woman outlives her usefulness.

On Saturday morning rage, bands have names like Owl Eyes, Boy and Bear, Fragile Bird, Tame Impala, Buried Feathers, Band of Horses. Some walk the streets in animal masks, while other frail longhaired things in tufts and silk wander through forests. Make nests for themselves. Bathe in streams. Mark their territory with neon ribbons. 

Pete points out half-beast street art and a model stares back at me from a print ad, a drake under her arm like she just bought him on Bridge Road in the sales. When we can’t tame them we turn them into stuffed toys or leopard-print leggings.

We crave our own wild life. 

keele street collingwood