About forty of them, a long line of baby ducks stretch nearly fifty yards down the non-descript street. They keep to the replicating sidewalk in a single file, some doubling up, though, maybe even three abreast here and there, the few marginal outliers.
Leading the gaggle is a slim elder. She has short-cropped hair, tight and blonde. She gives me a widespread wave and a small smile. She has pride in her eyes. Maybe I can buy her a drink sometime.
Her nest is a middle school around the corner, past the park, and a stone’s throw from the house that runs a clacking window fan year-round. It must be a leg-stretching period for the chicks; it is a pleasant time to be outside now that the pelting rain has simmered down. The air is welcoming. Is that the sun?
I am struck by the cheerless uniformity of these maturing ducks. There is quiet quacking but little laughing. There are masks on many and toothless mouths on those who show their faces. Many have their soft, pliant bills planted in smartphones. Others in the air. The rest plod, waddle, and stare. None noticed the three deer fattening themselves on moist bushes off to the right. Nor do they watch them cross the grassy median and disappear into the thick trees, hooves tap dancing on the asphalt.
Then I see her, the last duck in line, the period anchoring this meandering, swaying, and unremarkable exclamation point. Dressed in black, head to toe. Army boots, translucent hose, knee-length skirt, loose t-shirt. Over black hair chopped short, she wears a black wool cap with soft cat ears protruding. The furry ears are white, slightly duller than her heavy cream complexion. Is she signaling a truce or surrender? She clutches a stuffed animal to her chest. It also looks to be a black cat.
She is utterly alone. The other ducks pay her no mind—likely never do. She is bringing up the rear. Some brave soul must do it, take on that obligation, so the others can feel better about their place in line, the natural order of things, themselves. She wears on the outside what they fear on the inside. They know she is there but are reluctant to turn around and face it.
She is knock-kneed and a bit pigeon-toed. Her shoulders slouch. And she soldiers on—an odd duck, feathered in black, sprouting feline ears, clutching a stuffed replica of herself.
She is the only duck in line that I wanted to speak with.
The other ducks wouldn’t understand.