The Politics of the Pond

It was so warm today (at 28 degrees) that I could almost believe in Spring.

And I saw a very reassuring thing.

Ping!

Ping the duck, the last of the seven white Pekins, who just lost his last duck buddy in the blizzards of January, was swimming around in a tiny open hole of water, surrounded by five mallards.

Maybe he can make new friends.

He survived last night when our breath turned to ice and the world was all white.

In the late Spring and early Summer, he is often on my shit list (I am so sorry but how else can I say it? Pardon my not-French!) because the white ducks terrorize the mallards and chase the young mallard mothers and their tiny babies, such between them and the snapping turtles and the ospreys no baby mallards survive, but maybe this year…

My heart also goes out to Ping. He is sweet with a sweet duck soul.
I take him corn and crackers.

I never think of orange sauce when I see him. Or even of crispy fried duck.

And I have seen him bullied to near death by a Canada goose who rode his back and repeatedly plunged him underwater violently, wringing the near life out of him.

The politics of the pond.

Now that it is warmer for a moment, I think I can hear the murmurs of crocuses.
They are dreaming. Like me, they are dreaming Spring.

The dream is just beginning.