The Black Duck

Among a group of dull-brown mallard hens, a black duck rests on the raised rim of the park’s reflecting pool. His shape, sleek and smooth, stands out – a silhouette, sharply cut into the glaring morning air, his plumage gleaming with the sheen of a highly polished surface. He takes note of my approach but remains in place. As I come closer, he quickly rises, and stretching his black wings like one just getting out of bed, each feather articulated crisp and sharp, he slips breast-first into the water without a splash and glides off to the safety of a patch of water lilies, his neck tall, his regal head slimmed down to his whittled beak. But his head is still turned toward me, and that red-ringed eye of his impinges on my eyes as though a fine incision had been traced there, and suddenly I see blood.