Fire ignites in my gut, then flies off like geese in a flutter of wings. I watch and wait, warned by recollection. Introspection is my implement. So many faces, their eyes fraught and fevered, have wielded the power of presumption over me. They misjudge me, though, mistaking modesty, mousy hair, a five-foot frame and too-thick hips, reflective eyes for fragility. Warning: I am not flimsy. Reduced by the reek of arrogance, perhaps, but only bowed low enough to avoid breathing it in. I cannot be beaten by your belief. Today I strolled past a man and smiled. Dismissive, he glanced and looked away. His dog, its tongue dangling, grinned. I’ll take the dog. This is the way of geese’s wings.