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The ducks are back.
She hobbles to the door and beckons them to go away; she likes to swim in our pool, but such a habit is not agreeable when bird shit decorates the red-brick rim. The pool is less than five meters away from the ocean, where a cement wall divides dirt and grass from sea and sand. This is where the ducks come from—whether it be from the blue of the sky or the blue of the waves.
In the morning, she slips into the pool with a float and sunscreen; the disturbance she makes on the glass surface is much like that of the boats by mid-afternoon, five meters away. Rumor has it that the whales aren't happy with the noise pollution—but this is according to the ducks, who gossip quite often.
A few years ago we wanted nature for a day and went to Yellowstone, where we thought we became friends with the bison, shed our fears in the hot springs, saw ourselves reflected in the geysers that reached upwards, outwards, leaving the glimmer of mist. We snapped photos of the moose to look at later, in our home, feeling that a part of that moose was still with us. Oh I was so close I could touch it, yes really, so close, me and that moose.
The ducks usually come in spring time and in the light of full sunrise. Her efforts have proven futile, for now the ducks waddle to the edge, to the divide, and watch with their inky eyes: spectators to their own sport.
Sophia Chen