Make Way For Ducklings

It’s dawn and the sky is filled with pink cotton candy handprints, just like the ones my children used to make in preschool for a Mother’s Day surprise. The coconut trees dance in the wind wishing me a playful good morning. The fresh sea salt air cleanses my heart and scours my brain, grooming me for another day in paradise. I look out my balcony at the pool hoping to see my little ducklings, an adorable pair of beautiful birds that I have grown very attached to over the last few days; but they slumber still, so I run the hills and the beach and swim in the sapphire blue ocean.

Later on I go to the pool, a small but luxuriously perched oasis on a bluff meshed seamlessly with jagged rock, ocean spray and a rich vista of perfect mountain tops cut from God’s pinking shears. I prefer the solitude of the small point two hundred yards from the pool, but the pool is where the action is—for you see, that is where my little ducklings play.

I settle into watch my birds, stealing glimpses as I pretend to read, for they are skittish and easily irritated and adverse to entrees of any sort. There is no eye contact with others; they are aloof, emitting an elegant arrogance that protects them from random guests who want to touch them or try to pick them up.

Creatures of comfort and habit, their daily rituals I have come to know and anticipate. The ducklings love to sleep and arrive at the pool much later than mere mortals. Their timing must be just right, for preening is not a parade without a proper audience. Two pair of pole thin legs with necks to match cushioned by full round bosoms and sleekly coiffed tail feathers, their duckbills framed in a ruby gloss, my birds glide across the tile like Ava Gardner and Audrey Hepburn walking the red carpet. The other guests are enchanted as well, for they are lovely creatures and mirror nature’s genius, reminiscent of an icon deeply felt, but not readily put into words.

Far from the comfort of their nest eggs, these ducklings are still very young. And yet, their abilities and itineraries often exceed cautions of common sense; they incubate in a culture of reality served up raw. At least for now they seem satisfied living in a glamorous habitat, happy to have kind hearts overseeing their needs. When hungry, they shamelessly flirt for French fries and I have seen them caw with laughter at unexpected moments, thrilling me with a burst of spontaneous enthusiasm, albeit annexed in my imagination.

I know they do not think in the way that I can and do, yet I want to talk to my ducklings, deluge them with my wisdom, emote opinion, and drown them in advice. I know it is fruitless, so I do the honorable: I make way for ducklings. I cease and desist, and say a simple “good night my little loves.” But my love for them is profound-- deeper than this ocean’s bottom, fiercer than the sea storm that rages outside. I marvel at their strength and agility each time they lift off in a burst of flight, and I am awed by the possibility that simmers in their adolescent hearts.

It’s time for me to fly now, too, back into the cold glare of reality and my beloved nest north. But before I go, a fond farewell to Sapphire Beach and thanks to my little ducklings. You have brought me pleasure and insight and joy on this journey, you have helped me catch my breath, and you have taken my breath away. Like the Caribbean weather report, I see sunny skies with little chance of rain and the occasional storm ahead for you—it’s a forecast I can live with, it’s a forecast I can love.

Kim Dannies ©2008