A Running Duck*


“Can you see any ducks then?” Dad says as we arrive at the mill on our bikes.

“Well there are some sleeping over there,” I say, pointing at the bank of the stream.  “And there are some baby moorhens over there.”

“Very good,” Dad says, dismounting from his bike to sit on a bench overlooking the stream.

Looking up, I see a collared dove fly in with a twig in her mouth.  She deposits it in her nest above us.

This is the first time we’ve cycled up to the mill for weeks: haven’t felt up to it.  Now we’re here it’s gorgeous: sunlight dapples the water and the ducks waddle around quacking.  

“Now we’ve got that big hill to get up,” Dad says as we return to our bikes.

“Let’s hope we make it,” I say as we cycle away from the mill, along the bank of the stream.  It’s uphill most of the way back and there’s a huge hill to climb.

Somehow we make it, so that’s good.  Now Dad is reading the paper in his chair, Mum is making supper and the fluffy monster is still prowling around outside.  Have pains across my chest from cycling, but am so happy that we achieved the trip to the mill.  The panther lies on the sofa next to me, his head resting in my lap.

The attached photo is a duck at the mill today and the above photo contains some more of the mill’s ducks.

Happy Father’s Day everyone!

*1974.  By Paula Gosling.  Crime novel.

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