About two dozen lesser whistling ducks have made the Eco-Lake of the Botanic Gardens their haunt, sharing the stagnant pool with a bevy of Australasian swans and bold families of water hens. Last Sunday, some of the ducks were basking on a grassy bank alongside countless feral pigeons; both groups appeared to be anticipating a regular hand-out of crumbs from families and picnicking couples with a heart for the birds and a head for none.
Another half a dozen or so ducks kept to a cove on the farther side, a quieter bay loosely fringed by pandans on props and papyrus reeds. They paddled in a loose assembly, ducked for weed and surfaced with wet green strands around their bills and bodies. A few would make more prolonged dives, resurfacing in a mesh of filaments and oiled feathers; after regaining its composure and greeting its mates the duck would fluff itself up and whirl its wings to flush off the remaining droplets. The birds were mostly silent, save the barest hint of a whistle between buddies and the in-flight whirr of oncoming fowl.
Peas of a flock, there was little to distinguish one lump of dark brown, chestnut and buff from another. But to these little beasts, every turn of head, dip of beak and nibbling of a feather was a message of intent, a motion of purpose. The ducks dabbed their bills into the water a little too often than necessary, suggesting that the gesture might be less an act of impulse than a signal to associates. One duck might also ape the preening actions of another, in a possible ritual of affirmation that precedes a mutual peck.
With little warning, two individuals abruptly broke off from feeding and grooming to face off. Despite (or due to) the intrusion of a third party, a series of subtle head bobs soon led to a rapid swing by one duck as he mounted the other for but a couple of seconds before slipping off to tread water with breast raised in a triumphal step-dance. His mate followed suit with wings in half-lift, synchronised dunks and high frequency tail wags before each duck settled down once more with nonchalant flaps and throwaway twists of the head. Quick and as dirty as a pond can be, the act was probably standard fare for the flock, a climax of efficiency befitting a tribe with little time for ceremony or the demands of courtship. There was little foreplay and no aftermath worth recounting, and most guests of the gardens, including those with better aim and far superior armament, would have probably overlooked the habits of these gregarious ducks in their quest for a weekend of diversions that all but disregards the language of love and the smaller facts of life.
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