“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” This is not exactly what a rooster sounds like, at least not ours. A bit more like, “kraaa-ra-ka (rooster cough)-krou” but it’s not his fault, I think ours has a sore throat.
A gorgeous morning, the sun is slowly creeping up the leaves on the trees, the roosters shouting for everyone to get up and the goats are tap dancing on the deck (with a bit of Irish in them, I’m sure they would blend in well with the River Dancers) and our dogs having a barking competition with the neighbors dog (or maybe they are just discussing in dog language the wild parties that went on last night while us humans were asleep).
My husband and I just returned from a nice small walk out on this cool morning and we were so excited to see all the wild Mallards that our pet ducks have invited to our pond. The pond is only about thirty feet in diameter and it is snugly hosting about 53 (we tried to count) Mallards and eight of our own for a tentative grand total of sixty one – now I just hope we have enough cracked corn to go around (Jimmy crack corn and I DO care)!
It would be quite fun to be a duck (until hunting season) and I don’t mean a duck like Daffy Duck or Donald Duck (though being in a cartoon would be pretty cool but I think if I was a Disney Duck I would want to be Uncle Scrooge McDuck or if not him, I would be a duck on the Simpons – what they need a good talking duck!) nevertheless I’m talking about an actual wild duck (notice I didn’t say pet duck – they don’t fly but more then two feet off the ground). I believe I would choose to be a male duck too, yes, it would be cool to lay an egg I’m sure and I realize that male ducks do not pee while standing up (it’s not fair that I can’t write my name in the snow too) but male ducks have the most beautiful feathers, especially in the fall. When all the leaves have changed into elegant shades of reds, oranges and yellows the wild Mallards fly in with their vibrant emerald greens and sapphire blues…simply breath taking. They also, always visit in pairs, the males are very protective of their mates and will fight off any other duck (or chicken) who try to make the move on their love, it’s a bit of old fashion charm really.
As a duck, I know I would be different (a duck of a different color – the black duck of the family) it is just in my reborn soul to be the odd one (duck) out. My first autumn I’m sure I would try to stay North for the winter (to try to prove to the other ducks they are just a flock of wimps) but after a close brush with death and a few frost bit feather tips I’m sure I’d humbly fly (not quite so elegantly) down South with the rest of them. However, I would not stay where all the others did (that’s what the hunters look for – the big groups of quackers) oh no, I would do some research (no – not on google, I would use my duck instincts) and travel the world. Perhaps, I would find my true love mate on the waters of Venice Italy and I would court her right there on those waters with all the gondolas floating past and we would pose for the cameras and snack on the bits of Altamura bread (not fish, yes small fish are fun but contrary to popular belief we ducks are not great fishermen – in fact we need to watch our….um tail feathers if a big Pike gets too close) the passing tourist tossed out to us. We might fly to Africa to adopt a few orphaned ducklings and eventually after a few more stops (I could dream on and on about places I would like to visit) we would fly home….to this little pond in Hancock, Maine.
So, I guess even if I was a duck I would always want to come back home. Despite the frigid snow bound Winters or the muddy mosquito infested Springs, the barely-there Summers or the magnificent blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Autumns – Maine is a beautiful place to anchor down.
Speaking of anchoring down, time to go catch the goats and put them back in their pen.
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OMG, stephanie, cut back on the coffee!
ReplyDeleteNah, just kidding. I admire nothing more than the ability to make something out of nothing, to see that every nothing is really a something waiting to be noticed and brought to the world's attention.
That's what you're doing here: going discursive, trusting your ability to skip along the blocks of ice without slipping off into the drink (as long as you keep moving as you do here, you won't slip!), trusting that your stray and vagrant thoughts are worthy, amusing, thought-provoking, silly, not-silly, and everything they need and ought to be.
Essays are all about discursion and only sometimes about focus. I like this.