I do not like where my eyes are. I want eyes at the sides of my head. And I want black eyes the size of small marbles. But what I want most of all is a bill.
I want an orange bill. A bill is what I want, and it must be orange. I want a bill with which to eat and preen. I would let people call my bill “a bill,” but never a beak. Never a beak, or “a hard nose,” “a preening blade,” or “a saw-toothed nibbler.”
My bill will look so fine beneath my small, duck-shaped skull. The best part about billdom is the purposeful expulsion of quacks from it. All the livelong day: expulsing purposeful quacks.The greatest noise in the kingdom of animals is the quack. It comes from the bill of the duck, and nothing else. The word itself is worth a fortune: quack. It is spelled like it sounds and is savory. I would quack all day. The quack is rich and self-explanatory. Every answer to every question, statement, or quotable quote, would—from me—be a quack.
“How is it, really, being a duck?”
“Quack.”
“What does a woman want?”
“Quack.”
“You know your house payment is due.”
“Quack.”
“Seventy more soldiers died in Iraq.”
“Quack.”
“These are the times that try men’s souls.”
“Quack.”
“Your nostrils are in your bill, evenly distributed.”
“Quack.”
“It’s time to save the planet.”
“Quack.”
“Your bill is not a preening blade.”
“Quack.”
“How much money do you have?”
“Quack.”
“You’re kind of cute.”
“Quack.”
“From your bill are expulsed many and purposeful quacks.”
“Quack-quack.”
“Are you warm and dry?”
“Quack.”
“This pond is drying up.”
“Quack.”
“Quel heur est'il?”
“Quack.”
“Simplify.”
“Quack-quack.”
“I know people at the pellet company.”
“Quack.”
“The sun will blow up in a million and sixty years.”
“Quack-quack.”
I would quack (and quack) all the livelong day.
As I duck, I could do it all. I could and I would do: it all. I would swim and fly and walk. When I wanted to walk, I would walk out of the pond and walk. When I wanted to swim, I would walk into the pond and swim. When I wanted to fly, I would fly out of the pond and fly. Or I would walk out of the pond and fly. Or I would fly out of the pond and walk. Or I would swim out of the pond and walk and fly.
The best part about flying would be landing in the pond. I would coast to the pond and backpedal with my wings to land with a green and foamy splash in the pond. The landing would be soft and nearly silent. Then I would just paddle around like it was nothing to me, which it would be. Unknown, to me, would the wiles of fatigue be. I would take off and land in a foamy splash and paddle the circumference of the pond looking sprightly—a hundred times a day. People would throw me pellets. I would consume pellets like a nibbler. I would land for pellets and walk for the littlest nibble. I would walk on my webbed feet toward the weedy-colored food.
I want webbed feet that are orange. My feet must match my bill. I would invite the masses to touch my marvelous webbing.
“We will throw you pellets if we may touch your webbing.”
“Quack.”
“The webbing is marvelous to touch. No other duck lets us touch it.”
“Quack.”
“You’re kind of cute.”
“Quack.”
“You are such a unique duck.”
“Quack.”
”We want to be you.”
“Quack-Quack.”
The two best parts about being a duck would be 1) the location and placement of my nostrils on my bill, and 2) my willingness and ability to stick my butt in the air out of the water, very high, while the rest of me is underwater searching for food or simply letting people see my orange, webbed feet paddling hard to keep my butt in clear view of everyone while I open my black marble eyes underwater and look through the murkiness at anything I want to, including the people who see my smooth butt so high up in the air, and how the water runs down my smooth butt, and how my legs match my feet that match my bill which works so hard quacking underwater and making bubbles come up until I fly away when I want to at a right sprightly clip.Oh, to be a duck.
© 2006 by Martin Zender
