Non-Fiction


The Ducks, the Grass, the Tempest and Home

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A certain day in April, every year, I get a call from my mother telling me the ducks are back. It’s her way of saying, “We’ve had so much rain the yard is flooded to a near-pond state. I’m so exasperated I could scream. But I won't, because I don't do that.” It’s her way of being positive about annual flooding by focusing on a dear, devoted pair of mallard ducks that have fattened themselves in our pond-like yard for thirty years. They land, paddle, they fly to a nearby inland lake on whose reedy shores they nest and raise their young. [...] Continue reading
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