I was kicking the footy down near the lake and it came off the side of my boot and went spinning into the reeds. When I found it a duck was inspecting the ball, nosing the pimpled red skin with its bill, making inquisitive muttering sounds. I approached carefully and the bird spread its wings in caution, adding a warning honk. Then the duck jumped on top of the football, trying its best to perch on it. The ball rolled. The duck teetered, fell off but kept at it, trying to maintain balance while the ball moved under it.
I tried again to get at it. The duck only became more aggressive. Idiot, I thought.
I walked through the wetlands and spied a clutch of eggs. I looked back and saw the top of the duck’s head appearing and disappearing just above the reeds, and gathered the eggs up, thinking it a fair trade.
I took the eggs home and kept them warm until they hatched, and reared them as my own. Made a little pond for them in the yard, which was a real bitch with them always underfoot. Gave them free rein and tried my best to teach them not to shit in the house. They are my family now.
One day I put them in a carrier and went back to the lake so they could visit their birth mother, and so I could sort of gloat about the family she had given up for a goddamn ball. But all I found was the ball, concave, deflated, sitting in the reeds like an empty red nest.
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