Where The Ducks Are

Solitary Spaces

Have you ever walked into, or just seen, a place and it seemed like home?

That was how I felt when I first came upon this solitary scene, somewhere on one of the streets perpendicular to Cactus Street near the college.

After lunch at Taco Bell or Jack in the Box, I found it somehow soothing to just stop by this unknown spot before I went back to work at the college.

It was like being home on my Little House on the Prairie.

As soon as I parked, I would spot its resident dog sprawled on the back porch, drowsy in the midday sun. He would open his eyes, his ears twitching. But seeing it was just me, he would close his eyes again and exhale heartily.

On top of the deck railing, a tabby cat sat like a stone sentry, its slightly raised fur a textured gauge of the wind when it picked up. I would wait for it to begin its leisurely grooming ritual to assure myself that it wasn't just the statue of a cat.

What I found most fascinating, however, were the feathered denizens on that solitary space.

Quacking ducks pecking, taking a speculative bite of whatever they were not supposed to eat. 

Clucking brown hen and four speckled chicks skittering out of the way.

And a stolid red robin, it eyes unwinking.

I could only stay for a few minutes and when my time was over, I would take a last long look, for I was afraid that I would never see it again the way I saw it at the time. I knew that eyes changed after they had looked at things and that if I were to go back the following day, my new eyes might make everything seem different. 

I wanted to remember it the way it was at the moment.

Peaceful.

And restful.