At the bend in the river a flock of mallards is dozing in tallgrass that is winter-bleached and battered by snow, by wind, by high water. Worn thin, there is little cover in it but it is all the mallards have and must make do. In these river narrows, in the tie-down of the straights and shallows their only true refuge is daysleep. The pulse drops, the body stops except for the low breath and the least heat it needs to keep on living. Even the sun is cold. And the mallards hold.

They are an average flock, these mallards. Still as the ice grounded to the bank. Closest are four drakes, laid up with their bills tucked to the crook at the back of their necks. Positioned this way their heads are a virtual black so dark it is not a color but a gap. Sensing my presence the drakes, in consort, look up. And a curious thing. That gap fills with an iridescence, so brilliant, reminiscent more of a scarab’s dur carapace than the hue of feathers.

It is the angle between the shafts. Heads bent, the feathers spread. Light falls straight in and vanishes. Only when the drakes unfurl themselves do the feathers relax and close and the full green flash of plumage, bright as a lighthouse, beacons forth. The object of all this stands between them, a single hen, invisible as an afterthought. Movement reveals her and (now that she is standing) so do her very orange feet. The color is a sign that breeding is imminent, though the choosing is not yet complete. It is for her the drakes risk themselves this way and hide as best they can when they sleep. For the need runs deep and the mallards stay. 

But I must leave here, not out of fear nor because I am riven by the frigid air and not because I want to. I am comforted here. There is a softness. I want to lie down beside the mallards on the spongy bank, nestle my face into the warm hollows of their wings and feel the pulse and listen to them breathe. As if I belong here. As I am sure we used to. Before we knew what we know and wish we did not.

© 2008 Mark Seth Lender

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