What is it about the vulnerability of a flock of ducks crossing a busy street that makes a human heart ache? Tonight as I left the office I saw in McPherson Square Park a whole convention of mallards had gathered, dozens upon dozens of green headed males waddling and quacking alongside their brown-headed lady mates.
Not all of the ducks had made it to the park, though. In the crosswalk at 15th Street, several more pairs were waddling their way across traffic lanes, stopping to peck at the crumbs and fast food bags they found along the way. They seemed happy, in that high spirited, we’re-dallying-on-our-way-to-a-holiday, ducky sort of way.
Watching them, I felt a clenching sensation in my chest. Dusk was failing, and the ducks were barely more than silhouettes--and low to the ground at that. The stoplights were red in all the right directions for the time being, so that the busy intersection was clear of cars. But that would soon change, and the headlights of the taxis and towncars would bear down on the birds, neither seeing nor caring for the peril.
Danger. Danger! I almost ran out into the street to spook the ducks and hurry them along to safety on the far curb. Something held me back; I’m not sure what. So instead I stood watching on the corner, twisting my fingers in my pockets. The lights turned green. A big maroon taxi, headlamps blazing, came careening down the turn lane. In a moment more, he would sweep right, right into the place where the last mallards huddled, oblivious. The car came, took the corner fast. The ducks had mostly had the time they needed--thanks to some incredible dumb luck, it seemed--but there was one male who was still dawdling. From the opposite side of the street, I couldn’t judge the distances and angles. I didn’t know if he would make it clear. I watched and listened for a thump, squawk, and feathers.
He was safe. The car passed, and I could see the last mallard hopping up onto the curb, toward the safety of the square, a bit more briskly than he had a moment before. Ducks in the city were still ducks in danger, I knew, but my task of worrying here was done for the day.
So I thought, until I turned ninety degree to cross J Street and saw four more stragglers scampering—as much as ducks can scamper—the other way, toward the Metro station. They seemed to be intent on riding the subway. So was I.
I overtook them at the top of the escalators. A number of homeless men in old, heavy coats were resting and panhandling under the canopy. When they saw the ducks, they laughed and teased. Then one of them threw a piece of white bread on the cement and the four ducks converged with the shamelessness of wild creatures who must perpetually forage, yes, but also with the silly, high-chinned pride and grace which is forever a duck’s, no matter his country.
