Duck Love

On a usual lazy, quiet Sunday morning, I wandered upstairs to chat with Roommate. Small Talk, Small Talk, and oh, by the way, the ducks were eaten last night.

Como say what? My heart sunk as I pictured limp feathered bodies in our once-inviting backyard. I suddenly found an afternoon in the hammock unappealing.

These were not my pets, but I loved them nonetheless. They were such happy little creatures. I would lounge back there, watching them absent mindedly, soothed by their murmuring. When their pool was refilled, I smiled to watch them ecstatically dive and torpedo themselves in circles. They would eventually come to sit underneath me in the hammock as I read, clicking away their bills, looking for bugs in the tall grass. “Hey duckducks, heeyy, duckduckducks…”

When Roommate would come out back, they would squawk and follow at her heels. Momma and her flock.

It’s surprising to me how calming and pacifying their presence was. They weren’t great conversationalists, but perhaps that’s why I liked them best. They would just talk amongst themselves without demanding anything from me. I could simply sit and watch them, content in their duckness: preen and eat, eat and bath, bath and swim, swim and nap. Their actions were instructive to them, but meditative for me.

“Hey duckducks… heeyy, duckduckducks…”