Three new sizes available...

There's a certain time in late May, when suddenly, there are ducklings everywhere.  The hens seems to choose the quiet evening time for their debut.  The water is mirror still, shadows long, the air quiet as if waiting for these new little sparks of life to make their appearance.  Almost casually, a mother hen appears from behind a tuft of marsh grass and behind her is her brown and golden brood. 
This year we have three families visiting, and each brood was hatched at a different time, given their current size and number.   The oldest brood is down to two banty-hen size ducklings.  Almost as big as their mother, but still staying close to her and cheeping like a newly-hatched duckling if danger is perceived.  The hen, like all mothers, is vigilant.  She leads them up onto the grass where the humans have thoughtfully thrown cracked corn.  They feast on this new, rich taste as she watches, alert, turning her head in all directions to sense any early threat.  If the ducklings spot the human, they're off in a waddling panic to the water.  The hen, cautious, but used to us, is willing to stay to see if more corn is forthcoming.  But those babies won't be convinced.  She opts to go with them and return for more food later.
The ducklings have lost their baby markings and are mostly a velvety mid-brown.  Their bodies are lengthening and their faces have more adult features than soft baby features.  Sadly, there are only two.  I'm willing to bet that she started out with ten or twelve little ones.  It must be very hard to watch the number dwindle due to predation from otters, cats, rats, eagles.  So many dangers in this world.  Raising two healthy young is a great  accomplishment,  as we all know.
The next family shows up, climbing the short incline from water to shore and four little ones follow the hen.  These guys look about two to three weeks old. Still very duckling-like. Mother stays much closer, and the family stays close to shore for a quick escape, if needed.  They still have their fuzz and rounded features, and they check with the hen often to be sure she is near.  Her head moves rhythmically as she continuously counts and recounts her four.  Since they're constantly moving in the grass, it's a good idea.
The final group approach more cautiously yet.  Mother hovers at the land's edge for probably twenty minutes before deciding it's safe enough for her squad.  She heaves up the incline and eight tiny, fuzzy little ones follow.  They don't focus so much on the corn as on this new environment.  And the hen has her hands full.  If I listen closely through the open window, I can hear her quiet muttered instructions.  If one duckling roams too far, she raises her head and her voice becomes more insistent.  They spend just a short time on shore, just enough time for the hen to stock up on some good corn.  Then mutter, mutter, back she goes down the slope with eight obedient babies behind.  They're so tiny on the water, only the ripples from their little paddling feet can be seen.

It's dusk now.  The water is still with the reflection of pinkish lavender clouds. An occasional leaf eddies down from the alder to cause a ripple which is sometimes struck by a curious fish.  The duck broods are tucked away in the marsh, the smaller ducklings under the hen, the larger huddled close.   Mother hen will sleep with one eye open, as there are dangers to her brood at night as well.  As the moon rises and the screech owl calls her soft toot, even duck eyes fall closed until another day.

The Neighbors

Some of my favorite neighbors hang out under the flower-filled wheel barrow in our front yard.  A mallard couple, attentive male and non-breeding (?) hen.  I question non-breeding because it seems like she would have peeled off by now and found a secluded place to build a nest for the coming eggs.  Mallards nest in reeds and other grasses on lake and pond edges.  But this  hen is staying with her man.  Mallards are what is called serially monogamous:  they stay with the same mate through the year, but switch to a different mate each year.  I wonder.  Because this couple has been neighbors for going on four years.  Maybe she has the wiles to keep the same male by her side even if she isn't interested in nesting.  Early in the morning I can see them comfortably roosting just under the lip of the barrow.  When the garage door opens, signalling the human with the can of corn, they rise and the male begins a soft, muttering conversation.  They watch cautiously - as if after all this time I'm going to make a run at them - then hurry in to enjoy the corn before the crows arrive.  The male keeps a weather eye on the surroundings, guarding the hen from any danger.

The Canada goose couple still lives across the pond, and again, the female shows no interest in beginning nesting activities.  The male guards her jealously, arching his neck and hissing at any perceived intruders.  She hangs back, grazing and enjoying the sun.  They move up to the big lake for the night, into bigger, safer water.  Their leave-takings and arrivals back are heralded by lots of loud and joyous honking.  They return about 430 in the morning, and I usually awake to hear them.  The riffles from their landing are reflected in the moonlight on the water. 

More productive neighbors are the violet-green swallows.  We have six nest boxes up, just on the shore.  It's hard to tell how many are occupied because the swallows are very wily and fast in their comings and goings.  Swooping and diving over the water, hawking insects to carry back to their broods, they make  wide, graceful circles and at the last minute, make perfect dives into the small nest box hole.  I make the holes oblong and small, that way foiling house sparrows and starlings that would love to nest there.  It's fun to watch a frustrated sparrow try to squeeze his rotund body into the small hole.  Determination isn't enough: it's too narrow and they finally give up.  The sleek, silky swallows have no trouble entering. 

At dusk, the water is still, reflecting a perfect blue sky.  The geese rest quietly opposite, bodies touching,  and the ducks are again bedding down in the soft grass under the barrow.  The wheeling, chittering swallows, purple-green backs flashing in the low sun, make a last food run for their hungry young and disappear into the safety of the nest boxes.   It's so lovely: it will all start again tomorrow.