The ducks have been hanging around the house for about six months now. They are impudent, landing on the wall with a clumsy “Aha! I claim this territory as mine!”
They peer down their noses at me, they whistle a couple of times, and then studiously ignore me.
They are a pair: the male has a strange comb that pokes up like a dyed Mohawk haircut. The female just looks nervous.
And then, suddenly, over night it seems, they went from being just two to seventeen, tottering through the uncut grass and flowers of the yard, the adults figuring out a way to get the brood to the creek that lies about six blocks away.
I was tempted to load them all into a wheelbarrow and cart them over there, but I wasn’t sure that that would work.
And, after all, they had survived the dozen possums that root about in the neighborhood, the dogs that nose about the property, and an ugly, old yellow cat that lives under the house.
I have not heard or seen them for three days now. I worry about this.
This is, after all, their territory.