It started gently, then grew in strength as the night wore on. As morning came it neared its peak. It was the wind, coming out of the north, and on it rode the wings of ducks.
Some came from the river, only a mile distant, but mostly they came from regions far away. From the Sandhills and from the potholes of the Dakota shortgrass prairies. Many came from Canada, with glowing yellow beaks and bright red legs. Mallard and widgeon, gadwall and pintail. The diminutive teal flitting in between and throughout, their swarming flocks moving in an amoebic fashion. Wood ducks came down from the trees early and, undoubtedly, would come again later in the evening. And, all the while, geese flew high overhead, singing their lonesome melody.
Continuously they came, side slipping down to greet the decoys below, coerced and serenaded by the pleading sounds of a bogus hen mallard. They swung wide, then turned into the wind, wings cupped and feet down. The shooting was fast and clean, and still they came. A limit was taken and Dog made his retrieves, and, still, they came.
The hard rain that had started earlier now turned into a driving snow as the decoys were picked up, and, still, they came. Wave after wave, flock after flock.
Now the bluebills, redheads, and ringnecks entered the flood. A cup of hot chocolate was poured from the thermos as a man sat in the cold with his dog, watching a sea of ducks flood across the sky like an incoming tide. The whistling music of thousands of wingbeats overwhelmed the senses and nearly drowned out the cacophony of a distant train. And still they came.
Snow and ice covered the northern lands, sweeping down into the continent, pushing the ducks ahead on their yearly migration to the comforts of the south. Dog and I just sat by and watched, captivated observers of nature’s stunning theater of life.
Then I awoke, the alarm clock beckoning attention to reality. Three o’clock, a.m. I got up and dressed in the dark, watching my wife, still gently sleeping and dreaming dreams of her own. Outside, the wind could be heard blowing through the trees and whistling across the window screens, gaining strength with each passing gust. It would be good day of hunting for a man and his dog.