I’m not a youngster anymore. Our family doctor says I need to exercise more, to lower my blood sugar and to lower my weight. So I walk. A lot. I walk the treadmill at the gym every other day. Four times a week, I head up the road to the Echelon Mall to do my five miles there. Yes, I’ve become a mall walker – I never thought I would.

The first Sunday this March was windy and cold. I grabbed my favorite jacket, a well-worn, tan hoodie I’ve kept at least ten years longer than I should. It’s unraveling around the pockets and cuffs. I donned it, went outside to my truck, and drove to the mall.

Back in the late 1970s and the 1980s, the Echelon Mall was a showplace. All the stores were occupied, even the little niche shops. Carts and kiosks cluttered the promenades, and everywhere, people surged and laughed and spent. Strawbridge and Clothier, Gimbels, and JC Penney anchored the ends of its  layout, and dozens of little shops filled the arms in between. I spent many hours window-shopping there, wanting things I couldn’t afford – furniture, clothes, electronics – things I no longer need.

Like most malls, Echelon suffered a long diminishment, and then a collapse. In an effort to save the property, half the mall building was torn down and replaced with a long street outside, where the town built a row of shops on both sides with banks of apartments above and behind them. The city government offices moved into several empty suites in what remained of the old mall. With just a few stores and one restaurant inside, people seldom shop there anymore.

The mall supports a different kind of life now. Empty stores have been taken over by several children’s theater groups, martial arts studios and an art gallery, whose proprietors give lessons in the cavernous food court. A lady on the first floor runs a thriving eyebrow threading service from her wheeled cart; sometimes her husband and children pass time on benches nearby. Echelon Mall has become more of a real community center than it was when it was the center of the community.

All of this makes it a great place to walk, with easy-to-measure distances and very few people to get in your way: other white-bearded old gents; a few old ladies; an occasional middle-aged couple in sportswear, striding quickly, looking intense. Every once in a while, I’ll see people  talking out loud to themselves, gesturing wildly, and laughing at nothing. I usually assume they’re using a Bluetooth device that I can’t see, but I give them a wide berth nonetheless. You can never be sure what makes people act out.

When the weather warms, the sidewalks on the street and around the outside of the mall property become available, expanding the track and spreading out the walkers even more. There’s a gentle hill that runs through the mall, so you can go in one level and come out another. And then, there are acres and acres of parking lots to stroll through, empty except for the Canada geese.

Canada geese have pretty much become a permanent fixture of urban outdoor spaces everywhere I go. It used to be that you’d only see Canada geese in parks, around ponds or lakes, but in the past five decades, as more and more wild places have been built upon or paved over, the geese have invaded sidewalks and the grassy edges of city streets.

On this particular Sunday, as I always do, I parked outside Boscov’s, now the Echelon Mall’s lone remaining anchor store. I went to the escalator and rode up to the second floor. That’s why I park at that end – I love riding escalators. I always have, ever since I was a little one. I made my way over to the mall doors on the second level and stepped out onto the sidewalk along the parking lot at what was once the main upper level entrance. It’s hardly used any more. The sun broke through a bank of clouds, so I fished my sunglasses from the pocket of my jacket and put them on. It’s the best pair I’ve had in a while – dark enough gray to dim the glare, properly UV-rated, and big enough to wrap around my over-sized head.

In the brilliant sunshine, I made my way around the outside of what used to be a Strawbridge’s, one of the original anchor department stores. A pop-up furniture store is in there now, filling only part of the available space. When I reached the outside corner of the store, I turned right, to walk along the third side of the mostly empty store. The wind cut right through my tee-shirt, so I zipped up my hoodie. I went as far as the locked store entrance and turned left to cross the empty parking lot.

As I stepped off the sidewalk, I heard the call of a Canada goose, that distinctive sound they make when they’re taking off. Excited, I looked up to watch the big birds fly over.

That’s another thing I’ve always loved since I was a kid: watching wild geese in flight. I always get a rush when I hear that call, and then hear the responses from the other birds as they lift and sail overhead, slowly forming their lazy vee, riding in the wake of one another’s wings. I always recall that they’re Canada geese, the place my parents were born and called home. Even now, in spring, the birds bring to mind Joni Mitchell’s song of longing to be elsewhere, but staying put. When I have to walk among the geese on  lakeside paths, taking care to step around their droppings, I still chuckle at the patient way they stand to the side, honking softly, backing away if you walk too near.

But this time there were no birds overhead. There was no answering call.

Instead, I heard the honk repeat, louder, and repeat again, even louder. I brought my eyes down to see a gander flying in my direction from a stretch of grass about a hundred yards away. “Cool!” I thought, “I get to see them taking off!” And he honked again.

“Beautiful!” I admired his plumage, the way his wings folded the air, his elegant neck, the way his beak opened when he honked, yet again. “He’s alone?”

Then I realized, “Crap! He’s flying right at me!” Then: “What the hell! He’s attacking me!”

Indeed he was. I watched him sail across the last few yards of parking lot, directly at my head, like a Thanksgiving turkey launched from a catapault. As he neared me, I could tell he wasn’t going to dodge, so I did. I lurched down and ducked to the right. I threw up my left arm, Tippi Hedren fending off the gulls. As the goose flew through the space where my head had just been, my palm pressed against his body. My fingers felt his feathers and then pushed through for just a moment, to feel the warm muscles flexing in his side as they worked beneath his wing. As he passed, I thought I saw an odd expression in that one eye. Shock? Recognition?

He made a quick circle and landed about six feet away from me. He fixed all his bird attention on me. “Honk!” he yelled at me, “honk!” And he stamped his feet, preparing to charge.

It took me a second to realize that I didn’t want a twenty-five-pound gander pecking at my legs. Then I answered him. “Gaaah!” and I stamped my own feet. I flung my arms wide to look as big and scary as possible.

He considered his options. “Honk! Honk!” But no foot action. Negotiations commenced.

“Gaaahh!” and then louder, “GAAAAGGGHHH!” Windmilling my arms, I took the chance to stomp three steps toward him.

“Honk!” He stood his ground.

“GAAAA–”

Then it dawned on me. There I was, standing in an empty parking lot, in full view of dozens of apartments, a crazy old man losing an argument to a goddamn goose.

I edged around the bird, keeping my gaze fastened to his eyes. I backed slowly away from him, still wary of being charged. Once I got most of the way across the lot, I resumed my walk, turning every so often to make sure I wasn’t being chased. As far I could tell, he looked pretty pleased with himself. Three other geese still sat, unperturbed by our encounter, on the grassy verge.

The rest of my walk proceeded without incident. I did choose a different route for my remaining laps, around the outside edge of the mall property on the other side from that parking lot, and then I looped back between the shops and apartments lining the miniature boulevard.

On my last round, as I turned down that little street heading back toward the mall, I glanced down at the front of my jacket. Its light tan color was precisely the same hue as the plumage on the breast of a Canada goose. I was wearing dark gray sunglasses, like the black mask of a Canada goose face, shiny as a bird’s beady eye. And then, there was my beard, the same white as the sides of the big bird’s face. This crazy old man cackled out loud, right out there on the sidewalk in front of all the windows of those apartments.

My assailant must have seen me appear at the far end of the parking lot while he was wooing his mate. When his fierce eye passed me, it showed surprise, as if I were somehow much farther away than he’d calculated, and far, far, larger – a veritable kaiju gander. Goosilla had invaded his domain and disturbed his springtime courting. Instinct overruled perception. That foolish, brave bird thought I was an enormous goose.

And, you know, some days, I think I just might be.

– David Milley