It is as perfect a late-spring day as any that can
be recalled to mind. The afternoon sun bakes the
newly-fledged foliage of the forest canopy
as a refreshing current of brisk wind rustles the
bright green leaves, a gentle murmur of content
washing over the landscape. The red cap of a
woodpecker ferociously attacks the bark of an
old pine with metronomic accuracy. Heat hangs
on the atmosphere, dry from lack of recent rainfall.
Dogs race down the hillsides of the ravine to
plunge into its creek and the crystalline water turns
murky but this is of little matter to the pair of Mallards
cruising serenely down its raceway, content with their
decision to remain where they first sought haven
following an exhausting reverse migration in early
spring. They have adopted the forest stream as their
very own and who would now contest them?
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