6.15.03: The Feathered Incorruptible ‹ Blog

My Lesbia’s favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved.

– Catullus

The Feathered Incorruptible

June 15, 2003

Every time I walk to or from work, I pass by a dead duck. A flat duck. A duck that is so perfectly flat it looks like it’s been stepped on by an elephant. Yes, that flat.

The first time I saw her I stopped and spent about five minutes poking around near the body, looking for signs of orphaned chicks or an abandoned nest. A lot of duck families try to cross the road during this time of year, when it’s rainy and cool. Most of the families make it; even on our busy street, most drivers are thoughtful enough to brake for the strutting fowl and their shy yellow offspring. But every year I see at least one duck ground into the pavement. It’s sad, but I have to wonder why the ducks insist upon crossing a four-lane road at the height of rush hour. Can’t they go up the street a few blocks, or stroll away from the road and into the surrounding parks and the numerous ponds?

But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, flat fowl.

The flatness strikes me as odd, as does the position of the duck. She (a female mallard) is near the road, but not on it; she’s across the sidewalk from the road. If someone ran her over and flattened her completely, how did she get there? And how long has she been there? I only noticed her two weeks ago, and she hasn’t decayed a bit since then (although the grass around her is lush and green, putting the rest of the sidewalk-lining grass to shame). Every time I pass by her I stop to peer at her (morbid little witch that I am), and every time I peer at her I can’t see any sign of decomposition. Her feathers are perfect. I’m tempted to take some for artistic purposes, but I don’t want to call down some kind of fowl curse upon myself.

The other day I went so far as to discreetly poke her with a longish stick. I looked underneath—nothing. No maggots, no bugs, nada. She felt kind of heavy on the stick, like the meat was still on her bones. I ruffled her feathers. Nothing happened. She looked like she was sleeping. She looked damn peaceful for a creature who can’t display facial expressions.

Why would a duck not decay? Maybe she’s a holy duck, a duck who died for her species’ sins. Maybe she is a feathered saint, a hollow-boned incorruptible. When I pass by her again on Wednesday, I’m going to linger a bit and discreetly check for signs of divinity (halo, holy spring, floral scent, choir of heavenly mallards strumming on harps and quacking ecstatically).