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.
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