it is a predictable performance,
this single file family of mergansers, the crested red
head of the mother, iridescent green of the father,
the string of ducklings following like a tail,
all moving rapidly along
the west shore of a mountain lake, a parade for
the gawking eyes of summer residents from decks
of cottages lined with early summer ease, watching
them dive now, with precision, one sudden submersion or two
or several, beside or under the docks, leaving
only faint ripples, to emerge on
this side of the lake that provides passage for the river,
negotiating upstream,
not in any water ballet, no, nor
any Houdini disappearing and escape act, only a
simple foraging of waters for nourishment, insects or
minnows, or whatever else makes for
duck feast or duck luck;
when eruption intervenes with
honks of alarm, a
barrage of flapping and
explosion of flight, turmoil
ascendant in a panicky brief journey
to the shore, all fifteen of them now
looking at the lake, their body language
anxious.
“It must be the otters,” I say, even as
we look over waters
from which nothing emerges, as we
wait expectantly, as we
wait
and wait
for those torpedoes of the deep,
who emerge with graceful motion
water slipping off their sides
these two,
male and female,
sliding up from the surface
to rest on a nearby dock,
sleek in shining fur.
at leisure, they
nuzzle, preen and groom
soak up sun and time
“They are so cute,” says a seven-year old
as his father gingerly moves their boat
from the adjacent dock,
and otters turn their heads at once
in quiet alert
for they know there are
predators
other
than those who like minnows
than those who like
baby ducks.
– Ian Adam
