Keeping Count

There were one, two, three,
four, five ... no, six, seven,
eight ... wait, nine, ten,
eleven ducklings swimming
in the small pond alongside
the path in the woods.

And the mother and
male duck, too, with his
irridescent head and white
collared neck.

Mallards.

They swam to the left, as
a group. Then to the right,
scattered and apart.

Over, under, and around
fallen tree trunks, branches,
and the ragged shoreline.

Together and apart, left to
right. Right to left.

Together and apart.

We whispered and wondered
at the beauty of it all.

At the blue sky reflected in
the still, dark water.

At how fuzzy and small the
ducklings were. At their 
doting mother, clucking
and guiding them.

Here, then there.

At the close proximity of the
vernal pond to the path and
the people and dogs that
so often pass by.

It wasn't until later, early
evening that we dared
even speak of it.

Attrition.

Not all, or even most,
of the ducklings will
survive.

Odds are, no more than
two or three will shed
the fuzz, grow feathers,
and learn to fly.

Not with all the snakes,
raccoons, and foxy
predators lurking about.

Eager, yet reluctant, we
returned to the pond the
next day, knowing we'd
once again do the count,
hoping for high numbers.

But there were none.

Not just ducklings, but the
male and female, too.

Gone.

Were they resting, we wondered?
Hoped. Camouflaged in plain sight
among the mottled leaves
and fallen branches?

We looked for ripples in the
water and movement in the
leaves, but found none.

So we imagined the brood
huddled close to one another
in the nest, resting, as they will
for hours each day, under a
protective wing.

And we thought of the fledglings.
The one, two, or three who
will beat the odds. The ones
who one day will take flight.