There's a storm raging outside. Quite a serious one for the middle of summer and all that. High winds, driving rain, choppy waters. I've moved my laptop to the dining room table so I can watch the drama before it gets too dark.
And to keep an eye on the duck family seeking shelter on the bank opposite. Mama duck and 8 ducklings - 5 yellow and 2 speckled. Wait, that makes 7 right? (Post on atrocious mathematical ability to follow ...) I've been watching them for quite a while, struggling to get up out of the water.
Mama went up first, then helpfully stood on the side quacking loudly while her babies bobbed and beeped in the rough waters below. The two tawny ones got up next, seemingly with no trouble, but the yellow guys milled around pitifully for ages, a yellow blob of fluff adrift in the storm, one enterprising fellow from the back trying to get on top, his plan no doubt to use his siblings as a raft.
Eventually one duckling got a foothold and, spurred on by his Mum, tracked a route up through the grasses and on to dry(er) land. His sibs immediately followed suit.
There was still much chatter and milling around as they all got organised - teeth brushed, dry jammies, that sort of thing I imagine, and now all I can see in the growing gloom is Mama's white head as they hunker down together in a dip out of the worst of the rain.
They say (and Rosemary Clooney says it best), it's lovely weather for ducks, but frankly I think it's far better weather to be inside, smelling supper in the oven and anticipating watching Skyfall later.
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