Puddles spreads her wings wide and leads her ducklings toward the pond. She calls them close, one by one. Twenty-eight tiny heads bob in line behind her.
When she turns back from the water, the eggs are gone. Her head tilts. No eggs. No nest either — just scattered straw where they should be.
She takes a deep breath and heads into the willow shadows. The pond ripples as she paddles past smooth stones and bobbing lily pads.
She pauses at a drooping willow branch and calls out. A distant cheep answers her from somewhere beyond the bend.
Twenty-eight minutes later, Puddles presses her beak through the tall reeds. They rustle open. Behind them, all her ducklings are curled together in a soft golden nest.
They cheep and waddle to her wings, tugging at her feathers. She opens her wings and lets them all climb under.
Puddles settles beside the nest and lets her wing cover them all. Twenty-eight tiny heads peek out from under her feathers. She rests her chin down.
The reeds sway gently. Behind them, the pond is quiet and warm. All twenty-eight are safe.