Evolution

Every spring they return, the ducks who come to breed on our dam. We do not notice their absence but we long for their arrival.

The dog greats them with relish, he is greedy for any excuse to haunt the water. They treat him with disdain, tempting him without mercy to follow them in. With grace they outmanoeuvre him. They leave him exhausted from swimming in circles and then dismiss him. He retires to the bank, content to watch. He never finds their eggs.

When the ducklings hatch it is different. It gets serious then. 

Our watch starts first thing in the morning, from the kitchen window that overlooks the dam. It is part of our ritual first cup of tea making to stand there searching for the mere balls of fluff.

It is difficult to pick them out against the grasses at the water’s edge. Their parents keep them herded together, which makes it impossible to do a head count. Eagerly we share our estimates of how many ducklings there are. We chuckle into our tea. 

Days later they dare to venture a short distance from the dam, into the paddock. We can see them better then. That is when we attempt to put a firm number on them. There is much consultation before we reach an agreement and a mental note is recorded. It is a happy and sad moment. We are happy to witness the new life in front of us. We are sad knowing that their numbers will decrease, almost daily, from here on in.

Along with the ducklings’ emergence come sinister visitors. Shrewd foxes stalk them. Opportunistic crows and hawks keep a vigil with evil intent. The dog tries his best but, watchful though he is, he must busy himself with other chores and have a sleep. Mayhem surrounds the few days old ducklings, especially once night seeps over the paddocks.

Our typical duck pairs hatch nine chicks, give or take one or two. By the time they can swim, and make use of the dam to evade predators, they could be down to only four or five fledglings. By the time they leave us each pair of parents often have only one of their brood in tow, sometimes none. Bittersweet are those weeks. They are the best possible parents but that  seems to matter little. 

Not so this year.

We had two pairs of ducks arrive this year to start their families. Both pairs hatched their young in the same week, leaving us running out of fingers and toes to count them all. We kept the dog away from his swimming hole until we saw the ducklings on the water. After that he went back on patrol around the dam edge, doing his best, being important. We knew he would make little difference.

What we saw when the two families took to the water surprised us. Not only had we never seen so many ducklings make it to the water before but they had joined forces. Sixteen ducklings seemed to have four parents. Curious was this arrangement. At first we thought we were mistaken.

The organisation of duck families rapidly became a central part of our lives. Always there were two parents with the fluff balls, and two on watch. The saying that it takes a village to raise a child came to mind more than once. It was so unusual, for ducks that is. We were fascinated, became enthralled and then held spellbound.

Our morning head counts continually left us intrigued. In the weeks that followed all the ducklings were there, every morning. We counted and recounted. Our trepidation for the morning ‘count’ diminished each day. Our delight, in proportion, replaced it. We muttered and wished we could speak duck. What the heck were they up to?

Then the morning came when the dam was empty of ducklings.

We hoped they were off tackling their first flight, that it was not something more ominous. We watched the dam all day, neither of us mentioning it. We relived seeing our children drive off in their first car. 

Later in the afternoon we heard, rather than saw, them back on the dam. The splash was unmistakable, the noise exuberant. They woke the dog. We paused to look, to fill our eyes. Four parents and sixteen adolescent ducks, all returned and accounted for. All joy. All graduated.

The mercurial but consistent losses of ducklings had not occurred this year. Did they know that? We did. We mused over those four parents banding together, sharing their responsibilities and working out their shifts. We remain amazed, astounded even, by their success in raising both broods without loss. So many more ducks out in the world!

Summer has arrived now and all the ducks have left. Our depleting dam is populated only by the odd itinerate water bird. The dog wallows in mud, his swimming mates gone. But we have not forgotten this year’s families of ducks. I doubt we ever will. 

Anyone we tell is charmed by our duck tale. It is special. It is special not because it is about ducks or families or beating the odds. It is special because on our own dam, in front of our cynical and pessimistic eyes, conceivably we have witnessed a step in evolution.

The possibilities are tantalising.

We will have to wait until next spring for some answers, when the ducks who come to breed on our dam return.