On a drizzly day in Grünau im Almtal, Austria, a gaggle of greylag geese shared a peaceful moment on a grassy field near a stream. One goose, named Edes, was preening quietly; others were resting with their beaks pointed tailward, nestled into their feathers. Then a camouflaged speaker that scientists had placed nearby started to play. First came a recorded honk from an unpartnered male goose named Joshua. Edes went on with his preening. Next came a honk that was lower in pitch than the first, with a slight bray. Edes looked up. As the other geese remained tucked in their warm positions, incurious, Edes scanned the field. He had just heard a recorded distance call from his life partner, a female goose whom scientists had named Bon Jovi.
Edes and his fellow-geese live near the Konrad Lorenz Research Center for Behavior and Cognition, which is named for a Nobel laureate whose imprinting experiments, in the nineteen-thirties, convinced goslings that he was their mother. (They took to following him in a downy line.) Greylag geese in the area have been studied continually ever since. The director of the center, a biologist and bird ecologist named Sonia Kleindorfer, showed me footage of Edes to demonstrate the subtlety of goose communication.
Geese maintain elaborate social structures, travel in family groups, and can navigate from Sweden to Spain. In a fight, an unpartnered greylag goose has a higher heart rate than a partnered one, and the heart rate of a recently widowed goose can remain depressed for about a year. These birds have things to discuss. Still, geese are not the Ciceros of the bird world. A lyrebird sings long, elaborate songs; ravens really can say nevermore. Geese are known for nasal honks. How much nuance can there be in a honk?
This story is from the October 21, 2024 edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the October 21, 2024 edition of The New Yorker.
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