Alice Arden

Devil Chicken

Brady turned their head towards the sound of rustling. Their eyes scanned the edges of the reeds and cattails for a moment before a plain brown mallard shook itself from the dried out stalks. Brady’s shoulders, which had been inching closer to their ears out of hopeful anticipation, relaxed back down at the sight of the common duck. Taking offense to the realization it was being watched or, possibly, the disappoint on the face of its voyeur, the mallard turned and swam away quacking loudly. Brady considered the similarity between its call and a child with a kazoo for a moment before bringing the binoculars to their eyes. They focused the sight on a gaggle of waterfowl toward the center of the lake. Not finding the loon they had seen the previous week they dropped the binoculars down on the grass next to them.