the ducks

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I went to feed the ducks one cloudy Saturday morning. I went to feed them at the park near my home. It’s a quieter kind of park. It’s not the kind where flocks of people pitch blankets and bring speakers and ice cream and toss frisbees and belly-laugh with their friends (at least not often). This park is the kind where you take a walk and lose yourself in something bigger than you.

As I approached the park ponds, a squirrel darted over to me, its head switching directions rapidly like a malfunctioning robot. It must have smelled the pumpkin seeds in my pocket. Not many people were nearby, so my only company was the squirrel, the guardian of the duck pond.

More squirrels joined the first as I continued to walk the path. They weren’t aggressive but were certainly nosy. They crept closer and closer to me when my back was turned and, when I looked back over my shoulder, they froze in place, like they couldn’t be seen if they didn’t move.

They didn’t give me any trouble, but I remember looking those squirrels in the eye more than a few times. Impressively, they held my gaze and stayed still. I couldn’t tell whether they were curious about me or concerned for me.

When I reached the pond, about twenty-five ducks drifted about in the murky pond waters. It’s a round pond, like a giant stretched open a well by some ten extra feet. Black grating, old mulch, small shrubs, and a concrete border concentrically surround the waters.

Some of the ducks napped on the pond’s concrete edge, rolled into bizarre sleeping positions like cinnamon buns with one leg. Others paddled around softly as passersby chuckled at them. Many couples walked by, some old and some young, whispering observations about the creatures in front of them. I wondered what the ducks thought of all this, of strangers coming to gawk at them in their home like I was doing. Did they even feel the pond was their home? How did they get there to begin with?

I pulled my ziploc bag of seeds out of my pocket. I’d prepared for this well. The Internet told me not to feed bread to ducks as my mother and I used to do when I was a child because it’s terrible for their health. Seeds provide better nutrition and are less prone to cause choking.

As soon as my hand entered my pocket, about twenty of the ducks swam across the pond to me. They knew I had the goods.

I half-panicked at their approach, and I tossed one half-handful of seeds into the pond, fanning them out to distribute them evenly. Immediately, chaos ensued. Ducks splashed across the pond for the food, whacking their comrades in the face with their wings as they scrounged for morsels. Sleeping ducks unfurled and quacked in irritation when my seeds landed on them. Some performed this aggressive motion where they hovered above the water and flapped their wings in each other’s faces as some sort of display of dominance. Several ducks flew around the pond aimlessly, either looking for an escape from the craziness or excited by it, a cacophony of noises disturbing the previously tranquil atmosphere. Even the squirrels, now unable to play casual at this explosion of activity, leaped over the pond’s grating and picked out whatever seeds landed in the brush with their characteristic jitter. Passersby watched this circus with amusement. I became aware of my face turning red.

But some ducks sat still on the other side of the pond. They were smaller, and some of them were still curled up cutely. Feeling some sympathy, I rounded over to them and spread whatever seeds I had left. Before the seeds even hit the water, the bigger, faster, and more aggressive ducks flew across the pond, jabbing their long necks toward their snacks and pushing away their gentler comrades. Maybe they were more aggressive because they were hungrier, I thought, trying to be optimistic.

It wasn’t until the seeds ran out and the ducks all stared at me expectantly like an orchestra waiting to be conducted that I saw the situation for what it was. It was like I’d walked into these ducks’ home and declared myself their savior by feeding them. Maybe for them, it was all fun and games. But there was desperation in their reactions, from them instantly floating toward me when I pulled the seeds out of my pocket to them fighting over food to their frantic pecking at the smallest of seeds. I didn’t like what I saw.

I went to feed the ducks because I wanted to contribute something, somehow. Something innocuous but exciting; something that helped. I suppose I achieved that, along with some other things as well.

I was done. The squirrels followed me back through the park. This time, I appreciated their company. I wondered whether there was some sort of social contract between them and the ducks, like a government and its people. Would that agreement be friendly or forced? Who knows. Funny how the ducks stay in their tiny, murky old ponds despite having wings, but the squirrels mastered the trees with no such natural aerial advantage. They will scramble like hell for their acorns, storing them like hoarders, depending on no one to feed them.

But the ducks, they’re simpler than the squirrels, I think. They are quick to forget. When I peered back at the ducks as I walked away, I saw them become the circle of napping cinnamon buns that I saw when I entered. Perhaps they’d already forgotten about the ordeal, and maybe they had already begun seeing pumpkin seeds in their dreams, excited for what the park would bring them the next day, whether it was another benefactor with snacks, consistently heavy rainfall, or more ducks to join them.

—Chuckry