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There are songs that justify their length and songs that merely fill it; this one belongs decisively to the former category. Geese open with something almost classical in its patience — a guitar figure that circles without resolving, establishing an atmosphere of anticipatory tension before the full band enters and shifts the weight of the whole piece. What follows is a structural argument unfolding over many minutes: the song doesn't simply build and release but builds, releases, recontextualizes, and builds again, each iteration changing the meaning of what came before. The title gestures toward a year that sits at the edge of imaginative possibility — close enough to invoke genuine uncertainty, far enough to feel mythological — and the music earns that scope. Winter's vocals shift registers between something intimate and something that sounds like it's being broadcast across a larger distance than any human voice should travel. The instrumental passages are not rests between vocal sections but arguments in their own right, the guitars and rhythm section working through ideas that the lyrics have only sketched. By the time the song reaches its conclusion, you have the sensation of having traveled somewhere rather than simply listened to something. The production keeps the rawness of a live performance while giving each element room to matter. You come to this song when you want music to do the work that landscape usually does — to make you feel located inside something enormous, impersonal, and strangely comforting.