A
rt: Mark Collins
If I were to reflect on the nature of water,
I’d have to say, “Ducks!”
Think about it.
I know you had a childhood too.
~
For a time, my best friend was Kristin Mason.
She lived on a farm with chickens and ducks,
and a brown-and-white pony.
We scattered cracked corn.
We collected eggs.
We brushed Nutmeg, the pony.
One night, I got to stay for dinner.
Her mom made duck with orange sauce,
wild rice, and artichokes.
That was the night I decided two things:
1.
I was going to learn to cook.
2.
Someday, I’d live on a farm.
I have a farm. I love to cook.
~
My sisters and I were clever girls.
Father was directed to get us out of the house.
It was the Saturday before Easter.
He wanted to know where we wanted to go.
We said, “The old farm store.”
He obliged without asking why.
When we walked in, he knew.
The stale air was filled with peeps and quacks.
He wasn’t going to get out of this one.
One box. Three ducklings.
Sunny.
Tippy.
Waddles.
That was about a year before the divorce.
~
Children are told a story about a
duckling that is big and grey and ugly.
Everyone, even the old farmer, is
mean to it. They make it feel so ashamed.
But, then, one day, the duckling looks into
the river and sees it’s authentic self.
And, it is beautiful.
And, it knows it.
~
There is a sign on a post by the lake.
“Don’t feed the ducks!”
People tear up bread and throw it to them.
Millions of loaves annually. Seriously.
Some people are religious about it:
every morning or every evening,
out there with the ducks, throwing.
They dabble.
They waddle. Sometimes, fast.
They quack.
But, don’t do it. It’s not good for the ducks.
Why don’t we pay attention to the signs?
They are right there. In front of us.
~
Where I went to college, there was a pond.
I’d stop there on my way to and from classes,
to visit the ducks. I loved those mallards.
Once a red-tailed hawk came down from a big
beech and landed on a drake. The duck screamed
and thrashed. Students screamed, some running away,
some running toward. Death arrived and fed the
living while we watched.
Emotions are never calculated into predator-prey equations.
But, it was mating season that I remember most.
How cruel the pursuit of a hen could be. There
were always feathers flying, torn from the nape
of the neck. And, near-drownings.
They say not to anthropomorphize. But, I did.
And, I still do.
And, how it makes me feel matters.
~
These are my reflections.
~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author
A book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins
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