The mama duck hatched her brood and ushered them down to the river that flows below the house. The hen’s eggs also hatched. Not being partial to her species, she didn’t take any notice of a duckling among them. Without prejudice of any kind, blind to color, feathers, beaks and feet, she took on the care of the single surviving mallard. He’s now several months old and spends his time pecking around with his hen mom, answering her motherly clucks.
Several days ago my dad shooed the duckling down to the water garden in their yard that he dug years ago. A little prodding and the duck plunged into the water, ecstatically scooping up the duck weed as if he’d landed in his version of heaven. So far, he’s returned to the chicken coop to spend the night, which may be wise as you never know when a hawk will decide to make a visit. Generally around meal time. Otherwise, he’s content in the mini pond with his mom clucking from a distance. If he’s confused about his identity or being an ‘only duckling’ he hasn’t mentioned it, just gotten on with his life. Brave, well, chipper.
There’s a moral in this story somewhere. I’ll leave you to find it. Meanwhile, why don’t we all just hold hands and sing Kumbia. Or hold wings…
*Post by Beth Trissel. Pics taken by my mom~