Nature’s generosity, so often subtle, is revealed seldom more dramatically than through the pandemonium of puddler ducks in existential flight. Once startled, raspy quacks, cries and whistles rise in dissonant desperation echoing from the shallow ponds, puddles and swales of northeast Ohio’s woodlands. Sensing an intrusion, they share a frenetic escape. For me, a brief moment of animated beauty is the reward.

My great love for ducks began in 1956 when I pulled a hand-carved, maplewood, mallard call from my Christmas stocking, a device that would liberate and empower the early impulses of an eight year old, encouraged by his parents to explore the woods, creeks and ponds surrounding his home. Much of the excitement was in the occasional sightings of deer, fox or pheasant, however, the more intimate thrill came through conversation with ducks as I hid in rushes imitating their chuckles and feeding calls.

Hiking woodlands in autumn and spring one can easily find the swales and ponds that harbor the “puddler” ducks – the mallards, blue-winged teal, black ducks, wigeon, even the rare pintail or woodie. Unlike “divers” that must run some distance over open water to get airborne, puddlers leap vertically on long wings, rather clumsily at first, bumping into one another, twisting and turning through pin oaks and hawthorn like dragonflies threading reed and sedge.

Somewhere, I imagine boys may still spend their days carving trails, talking with ducks, and putting aside the preoccupations of today’s world.