I used to run along this quiet road a while back. It curved uphill for a few miles and came to a
beautiful crest which gave me a view of the Black Mountains. Seeing it always pushed my
heart in an emotional and physical way, the awe at this sight that few people would notice the
same way I had, and the breaking down of my cardiovascular muscle. But over time, I’ve
forgotten the shape of those mountains.
What I think about more and more is a pair of ducks I passed this one time. It was
early in a summer morning, let’s say six am, and I came up to the crest. Gentle sunshine
reflected against a puddle which had formed in a pothole from the previous night’s rain – this
was England, after all, and summer rain would be a regular occurrence then.
A pair of ducks sat in the pothole pool together, quacking away. At first, I thought the
quacks had been in my mind – maybe I could talk to one of my quack parents about it
afterwards.
But no, the ducks floated in the puddle and at the sound of my presence, one of them
emerged. He stood four inches, barrelled towards me like an angry little bullet. I imagined
him to be protecting his companion, a gesture I found sweet, and I tried not to laugh about the
situation – it would’ve messed with my running breaths. But he kept on after me until I was
out of his sight.
We had another interaction on my way back, where he once again ran after me. His
webbed feet slapped across the wet road as he padded ahead. From my angle, he looked to
have a furrowed unibrow and I humoured him, picked up my pace and fled the vicinity.
They were gone the next morning. I wonder if he managed to protect his friend, if
they ever got themselves out of the road.
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