Where I go to school there are these two ducks. They are beautiful creatures, the male in his blue and grey and green, and the female in her wonderful woody brown and white accents. Their feathery coats shine as only birds fed on the excesses of suburban college fast food leftovers can be. They are quite sociable, both with the students and with each other, and they know they have nothing to fear from us except clogged arteries. They are a constant presence in the spring, a wonderful small thing. Two happy creatures at happy peace with each other, quite unlike the stresses of student-commuter life. When you see those two ducks just walking along (and they never fly, at least not in my presence) it's as if you've just been given a hall pass-you're a few years younger, you're freed from all constraints of responsibility and obligation, and you've been given permission to just take a break from it all for a few minutes and, well, watch the ducks.
I often wonder what they must think about. The ducks I mean-I wonder how they came to my campus, and what they were before. I wonder what courses through the inner workings of their minds. They are obviously possessed of a great affection for one another. That much I know; some things are plain to see beyond any boundaries of species. But I do not speak the language. I am not privy to their thoughts, or their concerns. Do they have regulars they see every day for food, like a human will go to the same rundown burger joint day out and day in because it has the best pastrami sandwiches in the whole county? Do they notice if the cafeteria pizza tastes different from day to day? Do they prefer the rains of March, or the bright Southern California sun? Do they notice the chlorination of the fountain by the art department, and long for clearer waters of their youth.
I wonder where they go, when I don't see them. Sometimes as I watch them, I imagine them on an adventure. They are secret agents perhaps, super spy ducks who don bow ties and duck shaped tuxedos as soon as they are out of the sight of any prying human eyes. Or cyborgs maybe, bionic ducks with laser eyesights. Or aliens.
Because there's really no way waterfowl could be native to this planet, right.
Mostly though, I think the question that occupies my mind about them is where did they come from? I truly have no idea, but perhaps...
Perhaps I can tell a story about it.
It has to begin somewhere beautiful. Ducks...they just aren't born in cities. Northern California maybe, out on the edges of the sequoias and redwoods that provide a visual so spectacular, so beautiful, and so perfect as to make driving through the fertilizer-and-sprawl-induced stench of the Central Valley to get there worth it. I can see a lake ringed by forest and thick with marshgrasses on its banks. It's early summer, because it has to be. The smells of plants, and freshwater, and sunlight permeate everything, down to the core of any being fortunate enough to behold this place.
There are two nests I think, buried and shrouded in the swamp grass. One is but a few feet from the lake, barely past the edge of the beach. The other is farther back, a few hundred yards away. Still close to the water, but far enough back to be away from any prying eyes. The nests are hidden from each other and the rest of the world. Both of them hold small clutches this year, three eggs, maybe four in each.
The day begins, like many others that season. The first sunlight breaks over the horizon, shattering the darkness into a billion shards of fantastically colored light. The morning air is light and crisp even as it is still heavily laden with the scents of dew and plant life. The temperature is at that perfect point—cool and exhilarating, but already warming and comforting.
Look at the nest closest to the lake. With your mind's eye, part the thick, tall marshgrass that hems the nest on all sides like a great green siege-wall. See the mother duck sleeping atop her eggs, her body spread as wide as possible to provide the best and most equitable distribution of her body's heat. See her mate nestled beside her, the distinct equivalent of a happy duck smile on his sleeping bill. Watch as those first sunshards hit her face, dissipating into a blanket of warmth that slowly brings her to life. Her eyelids gradually lift, her beak opens and closes a few times to wash out the taste of sleep. Her neck stretches, and then her wings open, and she is a glorious silhouette against the sunrise.
And then she opens and closes her mouth a few more times, and promptly goes back to sleep.
Her mate leaves to gather food as she resumes her slumber. She sleeps for another hour, perhaps two. Her mate returns, his bill full of water greens, and even a grub or two.
And that's when it begins.
The rattle and rumble is distant and small at first. But it builds, and intensifies, until the mother duck comes alive in a single moment, filled with shock and wonder.
The sound of life, waiting to be born.
The first one takes time, what seems to its mother an eternity. But eventually the shell breaks, the young one finds his way through the pieces, and he stands before the world. He is new, and helpless, but he is not alone.
It is the second one though, who will become the stuff of stories-his sister. She is second, but she bursts forth from her egg with all the strength and power a baby duckling can muster. She stands quickly, with confidence and curiosity.
And she promptly falls over. Her mother scoops her up with bill and wing.
There's still some learning left to do for this one.
A similar scene repeats itself a noticeable but small enough distance away, at the nest farther from the water's edge. There are three eggs here, and another attentive mother and father eagerly awaiting the coming of the next generation of their kind.
The first two are stillborn. Their brief lives are passed before they begin.
But the final egg-the final egg remains. It is quiet for a long time, and the parents think they may have lost the entirety of this year's offspring. But all is not lost. Life finds a way, as it always does. The last egg shakes violently, the new duckling-to-be inside fighting to be alive. He pushes, he prods, he charges from inside his calcite cage...and finally he succeeds! He comes forth, surviving where his siblings do not. To his parents he is the only offspring this season.
They will take special care with him.
The days of summer always pass too quickly, regardless of species. The days grow longer and warmer, the nights grow shorter-and also warmer. The combined sound of a million insects fills the ears of anyone or anything for miles in any direction.
Our two ducklings are a few weeks old now. They can walk, but neither has left the nest yet.
She sees a monarch butterfly, all brilliant oranges and perfect black outlines, and she has the curiosity of a child. Her parents are distracted by her two brothers and her sister. She trundles off into the grass, her tiny head bobbing and weaving as she tries to follow the insect's movements through the air.
He just hears the sound of...something, that he hasn't heard before. And he too has the curiosity of a child-a survivor child who does not yet know fear. He sets out to investigate the source of this new sound. His parents are gathering food at the other edge of their nest area.
He walks with an unusual sense of purpose for a duckling, or even for an adult duck for that matter. He moves slowly-after all, he is but a baby duck, and such creatures do not have legs that are remotely describable as “long”. But he still moves, towards the sound of...
They see each other for the first time closer to his nest than to hers. And they don't quite know what to make of each other-they look at each other up and down, more than a little confused.
They are the first of their kind they have ever seen that isn't related to them.
The sound a duckling makes is not a “quack”. It's much more like a “chirp”, like the sound a much smaller and much less water-inclined bird would make. And...it's what they both finally do, in the end. They communicate, as best they can, and they like each other from the start. They quack-chirp at each other, going through whatever the duck equivalent of “where are you from?” and “what's your favorite food” is. And after they've established that the other isn't a threat, they chirp and warble at each other like they've known each other for the entirety of their young lives. They start to walk off together, to explore the rest of the world around them.
Which of course is when the parents intervene. The frantic sounds of two worried parents, one from each set, very quickly captures the attention of both offspring. The two larger animals crash through the grass, both arriving in a flurry of feathers and extended wings. They arrive at almost exactly the same time, at the exact moment their offspring are about to go off into the world together.
Perhaps the adults know each other, at least in passing. Perhaps ducks simply don't “talk” about their offspring with each other until they are ready to be presented to the world. Regardless, there is surprise, and then relief as each parent is reassured by the sight of their children that their families will endure.
But then there probably also follows two sets of strong recriminations about wandering away from home unaccompanied. The young ones are quickly shuffled away, each in their turn. They both protest, each wondering if they would see the other again, and each filled with a new concept.
Friendship.
Humans age so slowly, relative to our brethren in the animal world. Thirteen years until we are capable of reproduction, eighteen until we are fully formed adults, twenty or twenty five until we form families...other species have whole generations, and epochs, in the time in takes us to emerge from our swaddling clothes.
And so it is for these two ducks, in this season. Within scant days of their first encounter it comes time for them to venture out onto the lake for the first time, if admittedly under the close supervision and care of those that created them. Generally speaking ducks, while not always especially agreeable to humans, are incredibly gregarious creatures around each other. But the great masses of the flock, hundreds of individuals and a whole range of generations, all sounding and splashing and competing for food, is overwhelming to the little ones. Then again...the water beckons the youths like an old friend never before known, and very quickly they take to it like, well, ducks.
And they encounter each other again. And they recognize each other, and they know-and this time, well within the eyesight of parents, they are allowed to stay and learn about this new part of their world together.
The two young ducks accompany each other into adulthood. Down falls and fades, replaced by feathers of deep and rich colors. Flight comes, and the wings of the young stretch into open, waiting skies. They live life. They migrate for the first time, they see some small measure of death as some are taken by predators, they see a new season of clutches, then ducklings come forth and join them.
It is the fall of their third year. The weather is colder, the time of the long flight draws close more quickly this year. The skies have darkened and food is starting to become scarce. The time of leaving comes.
They fly. Birds in formation, hundreds of them at once in one perfect V, cascading across the sky on a journey that is arduous even for ourselves and our technology-that is an awesome sight. The flock moves, perhaps not with the speed of hawks, or the manic energy of hummingbirds, or even the quiet and majestic strength of great seabirds, but with direction and purpose nonetheless. And they move with the contentedness of being ducks.
Do not envy those below.
The weather, as stated, was cold that year. Colder than it should have been, and colder than it had been across the entire life of these two ducks.
The sound of thunder was so loud that it alone was enough to shake the flock. The lightening appeared to rip the sky into two jagged pieces. And then the rain came, first, briefly in small droplets, then soon after in an onrushing torrent, a flood in the heavens.
These animals are possessed of so many wonderful adaptations to life in and around water. Special feathers, fantastic eyesight...but there are limits to even their powers. And the wind...ducks are strong flyers, but they're not birds of prey.
So many competing forces reach out for the flock. Wind howls and blows, rain attempts to bring them down by force of weight, random bolts of electricity streak through the sky looking for a target.
And in the end it is the wind currents, the invisible, spiraling, all encircling forces in the sky, that finally claim their victims. A lightening strike streaks straight down the center of the group, dividing it as it divides the sky. The flock fragments, attempts to land, tries to regroup. A spiral of wind comes suddenly.
They've always flown together, every migration since they were born. They always relied on each other, trusted each other, counted on a familiar face and call. And now each other is all they have-they struggle to follow each other through the wind and wet. First one takes the lead, then the other, trying to find a clear path to anywhere safe.
They dodge and weave as best they can, as the elements beat down on their bodies, but eventually it's just too much. The rain accrues, the wind batters, and finally they both land with twin *thuds*, exhausted. They waddle-walk through the rain, looking for any refuge, and finally shelter comes under a rusted and abandoned car. They huddle together for warmth, as far as they know the only ones left from their great flock. Sleep comes with a crushing embrace, the storm still pounding overhead.
The storm passes, as all things do. It's long past sunrise when they awake, and their surroundings are very unfamiliar. All they see is an endless profusion of concrete and steel, occasionally punctuated by a passing human. The thoughts of both ducks quickly turn to food, but they know from previous experience that any place like this is not the best place to find anything edible.
Desperate times though...
The pair take to the skies to cover more distance, and eventually come across something promising...a pool, surrounded by grass and flowers! They land on the water, grateful for the rest, and after a brief swim they tear into the plants like ducks who have not eaten in some time.
But that's when a human charges out, armed with a broom and angry at the damage to her landscaping. The ducks panic, suddenly flailing and quacking, and quickly turning and flying away from where they are not wanted. Neither ate enough, and neither knows when food may come again.
They fly on for a long time, still spooked and startled by their interrupted breakfast. Eventually they can take no more. Below them are gently rolling hills, and grass, and water...but also many, many people.
None of them with brooms though.
They land, because they don't have any other choice. They try to pick an out of the way spot, but there's really no such thing where they are. The humans give them a wide berth-after all, two freshly landed adult ducks are a rather unusual sight.
Finally one of the humans is brave. He tosses the crust of his pizza at the new arrivals, and lands it right in front of the two waterfowl. They jump back a bit at first-it's not as big as a broom, but it is kind of the same shape and color-but after some consideration they slowly go up to it and sniff...sniff...sniff...
They each take half and wolf their pieces down in one gulp. A collective sigh of relief seems to come over the crowd, and suddenly it's as if everyone is given permission to do exactly what they wanted to do.
A veritable smorgasbord rains down in front of the two hungry birds, chunks of sandwiches and carrots and pieces of cheese, and even a few cookies and crackers. A buffet from the heavens, eagerly and readily devoured by two hungry, exhausted animals.
When it was all done, when they had finally eaten their fill, the two sat atop the grassy hill they had landed on like a duck king and a duck queen, surrounded by their court of humans happy to receive their new monarchs. And eventually, when they were rested in addition to being fed, they stood up and started off to take stock of their new kingdom, just as they had done those years ago on the lake and in the marshgrass.
In this telling of their story, they came to my campus by desperation and tragedy. But now I am looking at them, as I do nearly every day I'm here. I see them walking together, past the hills by the music building, alongside the structures of the art department, around the student union and cafeteria where food is plentiful... They walk in that happy, relaxed way, quacking at each other in merry conversation. And perhaps now, in this time and this place far removed from where they began, they can finally know peace.