The Pond Made of Concrete

Down the block, next to the post office, there is a pond made of concrete. Well, it used to be a pond. Now it is a parking lot for the postal service employees. It is a nice parking lot next to the woods, so there is plenty of shade to keep the cars cool. The concrete was poured about three years ago, so there are no cracks or potholes for cars to get stuck in. The postal service employees like their parking lot and feel it provides a safe haven for their cars while they deliver the mail to the respective recipients around town. 

But the problem is the geese. The gaggle of geese. They keep coming back to the pond made of concrete in droves every spring. 

Like many migratory birds, the geese can sense the earth’s magnetic field to help them navigate their route from north to south and south to north. And while the magnetic field certainly helps, they also rely on memorizing landscapes and coastlines and rivers. They refine their routes and pass this knowledge down from generation to generation. But the geese stopped updating their route quite some time ago, and so they keep passing down the route that has a pit stop on the pond made of concrete. 

When the geese arrive, it’s a scene. They descend in a sweeping V and a flurry of wings. Hundreds of disapproving honks fill the air as they remember the travesty. Their pond! Their pond! It has been covered in concrete. But by the time they realize, the flock cannot turn around. Thud. Slap. Scrape. Skid. Their webbed feet hit the concrete. Their begrudging honks create a cacophony of noise that echoes through the parking lot and into the post office. The geese do not want to stay on the pond made of concrete, but they need their rest. They need their sleep. So, they decide to stay for a couple of days with the promise that they will update their route next spring.

And every year when they arrive, the postal service employees complain and protest. They do not like the geese who return in droves every spring. They do not like the green and white goose poop on their shoes and their windshields and the roofs of their cars. They do not like the aggressive goosey glances they get when they try to pull their cars into the parking spaces. But most of all they do not like the honking. They hate the honking. 

The postal service employees have tried putting up signs to tell the geese to stop pooping and glancing and honking and landing in the pond made of concrete in droves every spring, but the geese can’t read their signs. They can only read the magnetic fields. The postal service employees have tried putting out statues of owls to deter the geese from landing in the pond made of concrete in droves every spring, but the geese are not afraid of owls. They aren’t generally afraid of statues at all. 

Fed up with the yearly invasion, the postal service employees called an emergency meeting in the breakroom. Over stale coffee and crumpled complaint forms, they hatched a plan. They would not allow their parking lot to be dominated by these geese any longer. Armed with brooms, rolled up newspapers, and an unshakeable sense of resolve, the postal service employees marched out into the parking lot in a line formation. One postal service employee began shouting at the geese, waving his broom wildly in the air and banging it against the concrete. The geese jumped back and rustled their feathers, but they did not scatter. Instead, the lead goose, a grizzled veteran with a scar across his beak, locked eyes with the nearest postal worker and let out a haunting honk. The other geese gathered their feathers, stood taller, and began marching beak first toward the line of postal service employees.

One employee, braver than the rest, jumped at the goose closest to him, swinging his rolled up newspaper with full force. But the goose quickly flapped his wings and jumped back, avoiding the blow. The flock responded in unison, honking, hissing, and flapping with thunderous force. The postal service employees staggered back, shielding their faces. One employee stumbled and tripped over a parking block, landing flat on his back. A second wave of geese surged forward, wings flapping, beaks snapping. They pecked at shoelaces, tugged at pant legs, honked in ears. 

Floundering about, the workers began to flee, abandoning their weapons and running back through the post office doors. Covered in mud and blood and poop, the postal service employees watched through the windows as the flock let out a flurry of victorious honks. 

Then—Crack. Rumble. 

The sky opened up and a deluge of rain came pouring down onto the pond made of concrete, drumming against the pavement. The geese clucked and jeered as the postal service employees watched in silent defeat. The geese stretched their wings, stomping their feet in the growing puddles and shaking their tail feathers as if the rain had been summoned just for them. 

To this day, the great battle between the postal service employees and the gaggle of geese lives on as lore in the break room. The story is retold and passed down to new employees when they begin to voice their frustrations about the goose poop on their shoes and the aggressive goosey glances and the honking. It seems the postal service employees have finally accepted that their parking lot is not a parking lot at all; instead, it is a pond made of concrete. 

Erin O’Connor is an ELA teacher in the suburbs of Chicago and an aspiring writer. This is her first publication, and she looks forward to continuing her journey as a writer. Erin is currently pursuing her MA in English at Eastern Illinois University, where she was recently featured as a student reader at the Spring 2025 Hennings Reading Series, alongside acclaimed poets Allison Blevins and Travis Mossotti. She also maintains a writing blog, which can be found at https://fishyfeels.wordpress.com/.