The duck I saw on the road today had only one foot. 

The footless leg dangled down from the duck’s girth like a chopstick, thin and straight. 

Seeing a duck along the Great Lake is not unusual, but this one was so fully aware of my presence that I became just as fully aware of it. 

It was a mallard male so I’m going to call it a he. 

As I approached—not him specifically, just the way home—he spread his wings and skirted the ground in a running-flying combination. This is where I did a double-take for the missing foot. 

With his beak in profile, he watched me intently out the eye on the side of his head, his back arched as though thinking about taking flight. But he only scurried along the snow-patched grass into a yard.

Failure to launch. 

Now, did he fail to take flight because with only one foot he couldn’t gain enough momentum to take off? Or is that me being overly-empathetic and besides, fatalistic?

On the other hand, we know a duck taking flight uses a lot of energy. He may not have been fussed at all by my presence. He may have just behaved, almost, like any duck at human approach. 

That he was alone was mildly concerning. 

I was reminded of the lone loon that swam up into the creek in June a few years ago, an oddity in southern Canada and one we celebrated at first. It turns out the loon had come up the creek to die later that day. 

But this duck had a different vibe. He was young and spunky. Out exploring. A jaunt. A sunny day. 

The lake was just fifty feet ahead. He’d be able to hop to it, surely. 

Then, o dear, how would he possibly swim, one-footed like that? 

He’d use his one great webbed foot like a sort of flipper, wouldn’t he. He’d make sure he centred the good leg beneath the middle of his weight, and he’d lever it back and forth. 

Think beaver, sort of? 

He might feel off-balance sometimes, but he’d use his wings and tail feathers to stabilize himself. 

Not sure how he’ll do on the inevitable sharp turns that web-footed creatures perform so well.

The one-footed duck in my story adapts. 

He’s not left behind from the raft. The big fox doesn’t get him. He propels himself airborne as needed. In fact, a raft of ducks just flew in a line over the surface of the lake before me. He might be the guy on the far left.

One thing, I lament, will never be the same. His waddle. 

I love the duck waddle. (After a day of paddling, when I step out of the canoe, I waddle like a duck—exaggerating it for effect—until my back re-assumes its arch.) 

This is March 2025. Civilizations worldwide are scrambling to deal with the unpredictable ripple effect here and tsunami there of MAGA-fication. Almost every day brings a new calamity. We protest, watch, grumble, ignore, unite, retreat, escape and hope.  

The one-footed duck abides by an alternative cycle. He eats and swims and dives and mates and migrates and quacks. And hops.

The days are getting longer. The earth is stirring awake. Budding has begun. 

Something is always happening. 

The painting is called Hole in the Wall by James Simon Mishibinijima. With permission.