Ducklings in Distress
by Scott Shaffer

We eat breakfast in our four-seasons, back porch by the lake.
For a couple weeks, we’ve observed Mama Mallard Duck

lead her five ducklings in a group-waddle to forage for food.
Mama is attired in an old housecoat of mottled brown feathers–

natural camo in our garden of hostas, bluebells, and bleeding hearts.
She accents her plain beauty with a white-bordered, blue wing-patch

and orange sandals. Her orange-brown bill constantly clucks
instructions, warnings to her beloved, black-yellow fluffballs.

So far, all survive. Today my dear wife in the kitchen suddenly cries out,
“There’s some crisis in back with Mama Duck and her ducklings!”

Like an angel sent from heaven, she flies out the back door.
I scramble from my office to her in the park behind our cottage.

Mama’s frantically clucking and circling a sewer grate.
One of her babies has slipped through it, now sounds like it’s paddling

in the shallow pool, mournfully cheeping. I pry open the grate,
but darkness hides the prisoner. My favorite mama calls the fire station–

yes, they rescue trapped ducklings; she hovers by the main road
to guide them. Soon three, others-minded deliverers arrive with net

and flashlight. Ducky Little is saved, then tossed gently into the lake!
Mama swoops in, water-lands, and calms its heart and bleating tongue.

I wonder: How often do I drop everything to help others in distress?



 

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