He was the shy one of the waddling. Afraid to take the lead or be left behind, he maintained his place in the middle of their paddling, webbed feet rowing furiously as to not lose his place.
“Too tightly wound, that one,” his mama tilted her head in puzzlement, for there was naught wrong with him. Middle hatched, middle weight, decent feathering.
“Good thing he’d never have to lay eggs,” his aunt quacked laughter. “Or sit on them, rain or hail or thunder!”
He pretended to not hear. Bobbed amidst the plump. Scanned the water. Dove. Rose. Dove.
“They’re just a bunch of hens,” a soft squeak sounded.
He pulled his head up too fast and almost dove back just to cover up his clumsiness.
She rested effortlessly on the water, a perfect Duckess from the skein that had dropped by their pond.
“You could leave,” she added. “Come with.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge