This is Elvis

A Muscovy duck who lives in the reflection pond at The Park. I named him Elvis for obvious reasons. He has a slicked back, jet black pompadour. And while red globby knobs of flesh are a part of all Muscovy faces, Elvis' face is smooth and black, save for these perfectly symmetrical, dashing red accent caruncles framing his 'do. They remind me of a type of stitching commonly adorning 50's style clothing, so I admire that he's consistent, stylistically speaking.

What I love about Elvis is that he comes running when he sees me, with his big black webbed feet slapping on the cement along the water's edge. He's adorably bow legged so his big body wobbles from side to side as he does this, like a ship being tossed about in a storm. (Truth be told, he probably recognizes the bread bag and not me, but my heart just swells to bursting when I see him perk up and race toward me).

I've been feeling pooped and blue after returning home from yet another memorial for my father, on the heels of a long, emotional week... only to get a voicemail that a friend who I'd just spoken to before I left had passed away. That was kind of the straw that broke me in the marathon of life events I seem to have been running. I was listless, exhausted, too tired to exercise, shower, or even to lay down and too restless to read, write e-mail or watch TV. My husband said, why don't you go to the park to feed your ducks, which sounded good but seemed impossible. I looked out at the pond through our telescope and saw Elvis, the wood duck couple and the gang of mallards who are the regulars there and it was enough for me to grab some bread and my keys. I drove the three blocks to get there. Yes, I drove instead of walked - I was that bad off. But it worked wonders to restore my spirit.

Usually Elvis hangs with two other Muscovy guys, clearly their leader, but this time he was by himself. Thanks to summer solstice, the day was only just fading at 8 PM. The light was very calming and almost no one was in the park. It was very peaceful to just spend time with him, one on one. I sat at the edge of the pool. He got very close and ate one piece at a time from my fingers. The bread was soft so I got to see his long pink tongue help to squinch it down to his throat. When he was ready for another piece he'd turn his beak back to me and gobble what I offered.

What really blew me away was our eye contact. He looked directly at me the entire time, and I could see he picked up on my trustworthiness (there are a lot of kids who throw rocks and chase these birds during the day). We communicated silently, back and forth until 2 1/2 pieces of bread were consumed. He swallowed with some difficulty for a minute, then took 3 steps over to the edge and, gripping solidly with feet that now looked more like hands than flippers, leaned toward the water. He'd collect a few drops with the end of his bill and raise his head up so it would roll down his throat, his head bobbing a little to help.

After several delicate little sips he settled in to grooming himself (a nightly ritual), digging deep into this feathers on his chest, under his leg, behind his large wings, nipping here and there.

I sat very still next to him and observed, feeling privileged to be so close to this wild bird. And my malaise was no more.