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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Old hands at the pond know that the tenth duckling will not make it. It is the runt, half the size of the rest of the brood, feathers thin and slick, not fluffed, not downy. Its weak neck droops, it seems only to watch the water beneath it. Mother Mallard softly quacks, the rest of the water birds hustle to form a line near to her. The tenth tries to fall in also, but it is as if the gentle breeze and the soft pond ripples, even the warm air have banded together to thwart its progress. The 10th stops, allows the water to turn it the other way, it begins to drift. Mother duck keeps going forward with her brood, she cannot for a moment abandon the nine to tend to the tenth. Gulls are circling now. We who watch exchange looks, shrug. Three gulls descend, they form a triangle around the weak duckling. One gull hesitantly pecks at it, sees that it offers no resistance. The other two open their beaks wide to shear at the bird. The bedraggled tenth is lifted up into the high air. The three pond-pirates commence to tussle each other for the spoils. A few scrawny feathers drift back to the water. Only now does the mother turn to observe the end, Then with not a sound she sails on, her chicks swiftly following. “That’s that then,” says my friend. “Had to be” I reply. “It’s the way it is” he says. We both get up from the bench, walk away from the pond, not looking back.
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