Naomi the Wordsmith

I’m feeling a bit grotty today but then I remembered something that made me happy.

Back when I was little, my mum and I used to like to go strolling along this canal path.

There was so much nature and greenery and it all changed with the seasons. Springtime flowers, autumn time red leaves. And the whole area was an airport for migratory birds, constant arrivals and departures, flying in formation. Instead of plane engines you hear them calling to each other.

There were also these funny little birds, about the size of your hand, that flew in a way that looked like they were bouncing. They flew like rising and falling waves.

And the path was flat so I could go along it in my wheelchair like anyone else. Sometimes I’d set speed run challenges for myself. Mostly, I’d just watch nature’s performance art unfold around me.

At the halfway point of this loop, there was a really nice cafe. My mum liked the herbal teas. I liked the chocolate milk in the summer and the hot chocolate in the winter.

Outside the cafe, at the bottom of the green slope, was the canal. There might have been a cafe for humans, but there was a bustling community of swans, ducks, geese, starlings, and even the odd peregrine falcon.

We used to watch the community of wetland birds go about their day.

The ducks and swans had a sort of class war. Swans are known for being rather posh and, frankly, stiff. Ducks, well, ducks are easy to talk to, if you’re not a noble. They live lives much like us, with a lot less judgement.

Sometimes this war got rather tense. Here’s one example.

A swan glides slowly through the clear water. The sunlight reflects off it and the stream so it almost seems like it’s glowing at a distance.

If this was a nature documentary, I’d now cue the dramatic music with sinister undertones.

The swan glides towards the duck enclave. Ducks on both banks, watching the swan. Swan in the middle of the waterway, surrounded.

Behind the swan, one duck paddles away from his group, towards the swan. The swan continues gliding serenely, somehow knowing its exalted status within British law. Swans are for the monarch, not the people. The duck is getting closer to the swan, now.

The duck dives. We can’t see it.

The ducks on both sides of the bank and my mum and I watch with bated breath.

The water explodes, a tangled mess of white swan and brown-green-black duck, swirled by spraying water.

The ducks erupt in a quackle of laughter.

The swan emerges. It looks royally pissed off. The duck emerges. It looks triumphant.

The swan ruffles its feathers, and glides much faster than before, away.

My point rests. Ducks can laugh, and wow, can they pull a practical joke.