Feeding the Ducks

It is winter in Logan. The air is not warm. In the middle of January, the wind's whisper and snow's tickle defy the artificial skins humans use for warmth. Yet, these less-endowed creatures brave the chill to bring food-offerings to those whom God endowed with thick downy sweaters and waterproof coats. My wife and I are at First Dam, "up Logan Canyon" in the local dialect. This place name-First Dam-has no literal significance other than being the first of two cement barriers in the Logan River that form small ponds. First Dam is a favorite place among locals for family gatherings and group outings. Last month's heavy snows have crystallized along the shore. A twenty-foot-wide, half-inch-thin collar of ice is stitched to the steel-white snow with a deep, shadowy seam. I see, spilled on this ice collar, byproducts of duck-feeders past: Pringles^® crisps, now soggy; breadstains: bread that can no longer be called such; and water-bleached Doritos^®. Beyond the ice, milky clumps of white bread and green duckweed hang suspended a few inches below the ripples, clouding the pond's already unpristine water and stirring only when stirred by a webbed foot.

It is winter in Logan. All mammalian life-excluding humans-has disappeared, but avian life thrives. I had assumed that most of the summer fauna would have flown south or burrowed by now, but with warmer-than-ice water and human food dispensers here, there was no need for anyone to fly there. I count ninety-two bread-hungry birds before their weaving prevents me from taking an accurate number. On the south side, a gang of about a dozen proud geese plots some nefarious activity, using their bellows like gats to punctuate the air. They remain aloof from the flock of quacking swimmers, who ignore their pretentious scheming. Together, these water birds make a noise like a typist with a squeaky typewriter typing an endless line of "Duck, Duck, Duck, Duck, Duck, Duck, Goose! Duck ...." The setting sun is peeking over the nearest sheltering foothill, making the water's surface swarm with electric fireflies. A duck glides nonchalantly through the flickering of lightning bugs. Sunlight glimmers off her wake, forming a bobbing comet's tail, a glowing jet-streak against inky water. Instead of fading, the sun trail blinks and winks slower and slower until the melting ribbon of kaleidoscopic flashes stops.

It is winter in Logan. We are here to feed the ducks. We hurl some chunks of old dinner rolls at the water, but they skid to a stop on the ice collar. The crowd chatters, expectantly splashing their tails and pumping their feet, until a couple of ducks bump onto the ice. One tries to sprint for the trophy, but webbing slips against flat ice and he nearly loses his balance. After he recovers, the pair waddles hesitantly toward the bread. Thin ice complains beneath their weight and they turn back for the water's safety before reaching the prize. Suddenly, the south-side geese form an ominous half-ring-a brick wall of honking expletives-and close in around the ducks. Two hulking geese with Roman humped, hooked noses approach the ice's edge, parting the crowd with blazing eyes. The leader is streamlined and muscular, a smart, fiery-white dragon; his henchgoose is speckled gray and brown with a Mortimer Snerd-esque lump in his throat. The ringleader muscles his way through the wimpy ducks and arrogantly steps over the brink. The ice sags beneath his weight, allowing pondwater to flood onto the transparent platform and over his sinewy feet. Undaunted by this apparent structural weakness, he waddles nearer the hunk of dinner roll, cranes out his neck slowly, and-SNAP-happily devours the bread. He stands erect now, proudly awaiting another handout. We indulge him. He has deserved it. Mortimer Snerd watches jealously from a few feet away. He rushes over until, like a bumper car, his breast makes impact with the rim of ice. He paddles furiously, to no avail. Finally, with a swallowed "doh," he heaves one webbed foot onto the ice. Creak! He hoists the other leg over and bobs his head cockily as he totters toward the breadcrumbs. Crreeak! The ice shelf quakes. My wife laughs, "They're going to break it right off!" He crooks his head, and-Plunk! The ice gives way and both geese plop into the water.

We throw the rest of our bread to the ducks. Our oblation spent, I stand mesmerized by the aquatic fireflies and un-oiled typewriting. The goose gang shamefully retreats to the far bank and the ducks paddle back to the middle of the pond. Ripples in the water distort a snow-spotted foothill. The ice skirting First Dam glows beneath the sun as a newly broken chunk of crumby ice bobs near the edge of the water. We shuffle back to our car on crunching snow to thaw our featherless, unprotected hands and faces. It is cold! After all, it is winter in Logan.