Let the Ducks Fly

Let the Ducks Fly

It was a balmy midnight at the height of late summer. A bright full moon glared down, reflecting off the nearby reservoir and making it nearly as bright as day; perhaps day time during a solar eclipse. My friend and I had been partying all day and we had stopped off at one of my favorite spots to take in the chill bucolic scene. A mild breeze blew across the reservoir and tugged at our sleeves. It was still as could be, nary a sound broke the silence save for the crickets and peepers. There were only a few houses nearby in this rural area dotted by apple orchards and protected by windy twisty roads. There were no light, but the few stars which outshone the moon.

We had spent the day at a local fall festival, The Apple Harvest, where we had scored some really good mind altering chemicals from a local radio station’s booth at the fair, of all places, from one of the on air talent. We had waited until evening to sample the wares and things were starting to kick in, thus inspiring our desire to visit the nighted woods.

In the near distance a car drove by and, surprisingly, it stopped. Voices carried across the open fields, puncturing the silence and arriving at our ears. I could faintly discern the words, “thanks for the ride” waft across to us. As we stood watching, not saying a word, the car drove off leaving a shadow where it had been; a shadow in the shape of a man. We continued to watch, struggling to come to grips with what we were seeing, while the shadow made its way towards us. Who is this person? Why were they being dropped off here? Why are they coming here? What…?

We didn’t move. We didn’t speak. Until, the shadow was upon us. “Well, hi there”, said the shadow only slightly darker than the surrounding night. “Hi”, we managed to reply as the air around us turned into a Van Gogh painting, tingeing the night in a pallet of colors.

And that’s how we came to talk to this shadow man. It turns out that his name, or at least the name he went by, was “War Eagle”. He carried a small backpack and a large guitar case. He told us that he used to be married, but was recently divorced and homeless. Well, not exactly homeless, but that he had been living in the woods surrounding this body of water, for most of the summer, doing the occasional odd job, fending for himself and living off the land. I knew the area well and asked him where he was camped, but he avoided the question.

He told us that he was a musician and that he played regular gigs as a one man band, singer, songwriter. Explaining his showing up at this time, he told us that he had just come back from a show in Springfield and had managed to hitch a ride. Its amazing the people you meet in the middle of the night.

He was keen to talk and we were keen to listen, taking in the aura of this strange and wonderful man. Before we knew it, he had his guitar out and was serenading us; right there, just us and the man in the moon. He said that while he was a handy man by trade, music was his passion and that he was writing an album. He told us of a song that he had written for his young son. A son home, warm in his bed, probably wondering where his shadow father walked amongst the midnight fields.


He told us how his son, confusing the words to the recently released “Let the Doves Cry”, by Prince had helped him write this song, “Let the Ducks Fly”, and he commenced to sing this to us. He sang in hushed tones at first, his voice getting lost in the night, barely a whisper as he strummed his guitar with the barest of pressures.

As he reached the chorus, he lifted up his voice, singing more strongly, with more confidence. “Let the Ducks Fly”. By the time he reached the chorus a second time, my friend and I joined in and sang along. There we were, three hatters under the maddening moon. The song was silly, but yet poignant and we sang and we sang for what seemed like hours.

Before we knew it, the night had slipped by and the first wash of day was tinting the sky. War Eagle, made his farewells, to go off and find his slumber hidden amongst the hills and ravines of this precious land and us to return home and crash in our bed; to try and find sleep within the day, if we could. We were coming down.

War Eagle went his way and we ours. I don’t recall turning around to watch him go, but as we made our way to the car, I did make one last look behind me. The last stars of night still hung on and the shadows were going home too, to find their beds. But War Eagle was no where to be seen.

I suddenly stopped and grabbed my friend who looked at me quizzically and I looked at him and said……….. “what if we just imagined all of that”? My friend did not answer, but he let his jaw drop a little and I could see by the light in his eyes that he grasped the immensity of what I had said. We went home in silence.

Let the Ducks Fly.