Just Ducky

I’ve been standing in front of the big glass sliding door at the back of the house for the last half hour or so, looking out at the grey day and the little marsh that winds its way through the center of the neighborhood. The grassy bank is still brown from the winter cold, but the snow has gone and the ice on the water has melted at last. There’s a little foot bridge that crosses a narrowed spot on the marsh, allowing walkers to move from one street to the next without having to go all the way to the road on the north end of the marsh. The brown marsh grass is bent over, and where it’s thickest, it creates shelter for the wild ducks that find protection there.

A white duck, unusual in the local duck populace, has chosen a wild, green-head mallard as her mate. They’re the reason I’ve been standing at the door to watch. They were on the grassy bank, asleep, when I first looked out, the white duck settled on the ground with her head tucked under her wing and the mallard poised on one foot with his head tucked under his wing. Rain fell gently on the dark water as the white duck pulled her head out and stretched her neck. The mallard awoke and looked around at the bleak surroundings. Both ducks waddled to the water and set out for a swim together.

A curious musk rat swam out into the water from the marsh grass canopy and the ducks swam toward it. The musk rat turned and paddled back into the grassy cover.

A few days ago I happened to look out at the marsh and saw the white duck by herself. She swam under the bridge and then back. She swam into the marsh grass and then back out into the open water. “She’s looking for the mallard,” I thought to myself as I continued to watch the search. Back and forth, in and out, her head jerked from side to side as if panicked about her lost mate. I looked up and down the marsh to see if I could spot the green head. At the north end of the marsh is a wide spot of open water and I could see a mallard standing on the grassy hill above the bank. His head bobbed from side to side, too, as if looking for something.

Finally, the white duck swam toward the north end of the marsh and she suddenly spotted her mallard on the hill. She came out of the water and ran, in the fastest waddle I’ve ever seen, to her mate. As she came to where he was standing he turned and the two of them waddled into the water together again.

I look at them and wonder what it is that draws them together and keeps them together. Is it something in the low quack of the mallard that sings in her ears? Is his green head different from the other mallards in the pond? Or is he a strong swimmer? Do they have meaningful conversations each evening, or do they stare at the endless heaven and wonder about how small they are in comparison to the universe?

Something about their life seems nice—just enjoying the moment and feeling the joy of companionship, even in the rain on a cold, grey day. Maybe I can figure out how to be more like a duck.