Floating on a pond in the middle of nowhere is a group of 12
ducks and geese. No one cares for them
and no one brings them food. This year
there are more ducks than geese. Some
years it’s the other way around. But
they always manage to find this pond, and they always manage to somehow live
splendidly. I don’t know where they
sleep, but they manage to keep clear of the foxes. Every year sometime in June, I see a few
babies as well. There are always more
babies in the beginning of the summer than the end as they don’t all make
it. I have been watching this pond long
enough to see several generations come and go.
They are now part of my yearly routine.
They don’t seem to mind me very much, when they pay any attention
to me at all. Now and then, though, they
do come to check out the ugly featherless being who visits them regularly. I imagine they think I am very peculiar, very
clumsy, and very slow--not to mention my coloring is exceedingly dull and drab. I was thinking just today that this might be
a very accurate assessment of me or any land lubber, and then it suddenly
occurred to me: perhaps I’m not visiting
and assessing the ducks and geese after all, perhaps they’re visiting and
assessing me. Perhaps the pond is just a
big ducky science project and I am its focus of study. Conceited, I know, but just in case, I think
I will be sure to comb my hair upon my next visit. It’s the least I can do, me being the object
of study and all.
