The unusual usual

PURPLE GOOSE

 

Following their mother, twelve ducklings paddle silently across the man-made lake. She dips her beak in the calm water. The lake gives her a mirror image of her family. They are all learning so she continues her ride to the shore line. The tiny heads with wee beaks find heaven knows what, dead mosquitos, flies, algae? There are no fish in the lake, at least none worth my, or the other residents, time to try to catch dinner. The lake is decoration for the surrounding condos. The higher the owners live, the lovelier the view, the tonier the price. My view is gorgeous. It spans the golf course beyond the lake. Palms, ficus trees are forever green. Below me the trees block the expanse. 

 

Yesterday, as I watched the morning family parade, something was amiss. Although the ducklings remained obediently in a straight line behind their mama, the entire line seemed to move a bit more slowly. I looked again, counted. Eleven ducklings! One is gone. I doubt it died. If it didn't make it up the small embankment, anyone's pet dog could have had a quick snack. I cringed at my own sour thought.

 

Each spring, each fall, I watch the parade, see the line paddling after the mommy duck. They grow before my eyes then disappear one by one. I've seen their white feathers flattened in the road, still too young to ever know how fast cars go, how oblivious of their lives the drivers are.
The guard at the gate never bothers to call the SPCA to clean away the remains. I've gone so far as to borrow his broom and at least push the babes to the side.

 

Fall is much like spring here. I see no father duck waiting to mate, to find his once in a lifetime companion. Where do the ducklings come from? Does the father hide the eggs in the shrubbery? I'm not sure if ducks are born alive or hatch. And when they aren't following their mother, where are they? Once I caught a group of children feeding the babies candy and cookies. I'm not sure, but I think the ducks enjoyed themselves.

 

Yesterday, strutting like a peacock down the lane to the clubhouse, was an odd looking big bird. It didn't quack like a duck, so I guessed it wasn't a duck.  It certainly wasn't an osprey or owl. It's neck was long and it's beak strong enough to bite off my finger if it was angry at me or just hungry. The feathers were large, silky smooth, eyes deep purple. A neighbor saw me watching something and had to check me out, see what I was seeing. I pointed to the great bird that turned its neck and looked right into my face, at my pale gray eyes. I have
come to an uneducated conclusion, this strange animal is a male. My neighbor shrugged and told me his guess is as good as mine. It is a male.

 

I made some ugly guttural sounds and shooed the bird towards the grass. Those purple eyes looked at me again. A light bulb burst in my head. 'Of course, this is a goose! The goose had to be the father of all the little ducks in the world. He is really beautiful so I snap his photo with my A pod, print it, frame it.

 

My Purple Potentate sits on my kitchen sink in the corner near the window where he can see all of his children, grand and great grandchildren, learn to swim in the lake season after season.

 

Sometimes I think I see those purple eyes move.