You should write something. I'm not in the mood. You should write anyway. Alright then: Some Days are Full of Slippery Duck Shit on a Sidewalk

Fungus. Moss. Lichens. We’ve covered all those. Those are easy finds. They even come with little sayings like “the fungus among us,” like little catch phrases. We’ve eyeballed them. We’ve smelled them. We’ve documented them. I thought they’d be harder to find, but they are on every dead piece of wood, and nestled down by every damp pile of leaves, on every forest floor. Today’s task was sure to be even easier.

The boy and the tot set out on this week’s nature curriculum at the local park. The park hosts our weekly visited pine tree, which in turn hosts our moss. The park also hosted our fungus and lichens. No doubt it would host our birds.

We haven’t had the best of days. Or, rather, I’ve had a bad day. My mind looks something like this:

I’m anxious. I don’t do well in short days. Normal people get seasonal depression. Then there is me, the host of seasonal anxiety. Technically I am a host of year-round anxiety, but the seasonal variety is especially festive. It is bursting with Christmas light pretties of the anxiety variety, which in case you hadn’t already surmised, aren’t fun to look at.

So anyway, I wasn’t having the best of days. I yelled at the boy during math. How many times can a child drop a pencil, by accident? Patience is a virtue. Sometimes I am virtuous. Sometimes I am not. I felt guilty about this. Sometimes I suck at life.

But that’s alright! Because we were headed out to the park in the fresh cold air to do something that we enjoy ever week! We would find winter birds, discuss how their feathers and a layer of oil keep them warm from the imaginary snow, and how hard it is to find food in the imaginary snow and ice. We would put on our coats, and bring the gloves just for kicks. We would pack our nature journals, and that bag of expensive colored pencils, and not forget our bird field guild. We were sure to find lots of birds!

Where in the hell the birds went, I don’t know. We are in the south, birds are supposed to come here. We are the safe haven of many a weary northern bird seeking refuge after its migration. Florida is the equivalent of a stable for the weary travelers, if religious references are your thing.

There were no cute little wrens or pretty cardinals. Not a feisty crow. Not a sharp-eyed hawk. Not even a noisy seagull.

We walked through the woods, Old Man Dog jerking me along. The boy stumbled over cypress knees. The tot fussed about one thing or another. I was growing grouchy. We pushed our way through poky palmettoes and trippy thorn vines, and then we spotted them: the most pathetic excuse for a wild bird we could find.

Ducks. A troop of them, living together, like they had established their own little government. The goose acted as leader, garnering human attention with a honk. Give us food. Give us food. Then there were some white Muscovys. They looked a bit like the muscle, in case there was any trouble. Lastly, a group of three mallards, aka the high society - flashy and handsome, politely waiting, never ones to lower themselves by begging but glad to partake should bread hit the water.

The boy tossed a stick into the water. The goose tried to eat it. Soon recognizing the insult, he turned his tail feathers up at us, and the gang swam on.

Oh well. Some days are full of soaring bald eagles and the brilliance of a blue jay; some days are full of slippery duck shit on a sidewalk.

That's me inside that December bubble. January, are you here yet?

Come on January, bring me some more sunlight.