bird is the words
There were five ducks.
Siblings that grew up in the lake over the past few weeks. Mama sounded her protective chirp as they scurried past my dangling legs on the dock in zig zag formation. I threw the broken pretzel rod in the water to coax them back and they eagerly darted for my offerings. Left, right, left, right. In the air they were a V. In the water, a W.
Within seconds of the pretzel hitting the water the bigger of the babies nearly levitated as he skimmed across the surface. He pushed through his siblings to reach the first bite, and the second, and the third. His neck craned to reach the small bit of food as if he was pushing himself to win the Olympic (Rold) Gold.
I ran out of food to give them. And as soon as I threw the last bite, they became disinterested in my presence and swam away. Damn ducks.
They swam away and the water blended with the night’s darkening blue.
***
I was coming home. My brain was in a knot. It had long shut down hours earlier from whatever irrational thing it decided to hook itself on and I was thinking with my heart instead. I took note of the changing scents from each individual spring tree that lined streets. Writing bad poetry in my head about streams and bridges. Biking at night down Wilson makes you forget that you’re in the city. There are sections of darkness. Pockets of quiet. There is a crossing by a small river that resembles a country village. The summer never hits until August, and on a Sunday night everyone turns in early. No one is out.
I arrived at my street and saw a duck. A damn duck in the middle of the street. A damn duck in the middle of the road with a baby duck huddling under her tail. I couldn’t figure out how she’d done this since there wasn’t a body of water for miles. But there she was, quacking in circles as if she’d been there all night. And after all my bad poetry and philosophies swirling through my mind examining the beautiful tragedy we call life and death…THEN THERE WAS A DUCK IN THE ROAD?! I wrote several trite stanzas in my head before I could continue.
I wanted to pick her and her baby up and take them to a lake and release them majestically into the wild. ”Everything will be all right, little one!” I’d say, and toss the duckling into the air. The duckling, not old enough to fly, would fall like a rock to the ground. That image didn’t change my course of action. Still motivated to convince the birds I was their friend, I slowly and pointlessly chased after the two with my camera. Rather than just walking after the ducks, I found it best to follow in an hunched over half-lunge. It made sense to pursue them like this because obviously the duck would mistake me as foul and not human by my stature. Ducks are short. Humans are tall.
It was going to be great. I’d sit with them by their nest. I’d invite people over and tell them of how I heroically rescued the ducks and carried them both home in my messenger bag. Nevermind the countless piles of goopy duck shit in the apartment, THIS WAS POETIC AND BEAUTIFUL.
Mama Duck didn’t have such goals. She settled under a vehicle’s large frame with her oblivious kin close to her breast and resigned herself to her urban fate.
Damn ducks.
Tags: Writings
