Dusk. Our familiar star settles below the horizon, yet neither light nor dark rule our planet.
Nothing less than otherworldly, the twilight hour defined by a mingling of giants: night and day.
Weak light bends through the air to offer sight in still darkness. Not too much vision, mind you, but enough.
Amongst the foraging creatures stands a runner. Tall, upright, obvious. He towers over his feathered brethren.
I stagger at his presence, his defiant stance above his kind, his station. What empowers him to be so different?
It’s no more complicated than that.
With legs placed further back than other ducks, his center of gravity rests near his tail. This forces him and his kind to stand up.
And to walk like they’re running.
While gabbing ad infinitum with a diatribe meant for the gods.
Still, even in this late hour when daylight and darkness combine, his presence remains unmissable, unmistakable. Even if you’ve seen his kind before, a runner at dusk is a magical thing indeed.
[male Indian runner duck (a.k.a. Indian runner or runner; Anas platyrhynchos); also seen are American coots (Fulica americana), mallard ducks (Anas platyrhynchos), and pekin ducks (a.k.a. domestic ducks, white pekin ducks, or Long Island ducks; Anas domesticus)]