When I was in grade school, I raised a flock of mallards, drakes, hens, and their ducklings. I had over thirty at once. If you read my poem, “Ghost Flyers,” you know that I grew up on an airport. A regional airline called North Central (later to reincarnate as Northwest Airlines) made a stop of two at that local airport where I grew up. Well, my ducks loved the little ponds tucked around and in between the runways. Typically, they flew over to the ponds and had their way. (No I didn’t clip their wings, and if you wonder why they stayed around, it’s simple: Free food and lots of it. Why fly away?) But as usual, I digress – as if this whole narrative isn’t a digression from this week’s poem.
So, back to North Central. Now and then, the mallards chose to walk between the small ponds. Usually, there was no incident; however, on one particular day, a proud mama duck and half a dozen ducklings walked across the runway just as North Central’s DC-3 was taxiing in to drop off and pick up pass…
So, back to North Central. Now and then, the mallards chose to walk between the small ponds. Usually, there was no incident; however, on one particular day, a proud mama duck and half a dozen ducklings walked across the runway just as North Central’s DC-3 was taxiing in to drop off and pick up pass…