This is a story about my old duck. This winter she has not molted well. Less feathers for warmth. Her neck is bare. Her daughters beat her up. She bleeds. If I leave her in the open and rain she will die. It’s a natural process. Days pass. Compassion opens my heart every morning I see her. Unable to oversee her death I shift her to a covered yard.
Middle daughter and I see a domesticated drake in the park. His eyes read illness, abandonment, wings droop. Standing on an island of wet sand in the middle of a winter flooding creek we cannot reach him. We look at each other drake eye to human eye, leave him there.
Now I find a duck.
But this duck is not my duck.
He is a wild duck.
Not in my care.