In Tales Animals Talk

“Ay, mate, the fisherin’ men got our sunbathin’ spot again,” Leon slowly paddles to Kya and Mac on the shore. The water is ruthlessly cold. The sun is weakly warm. And a group of fishermen hoot in the distance to a lame joke.

Now not in yelling distance, he greets in a more friendly manner stepping unto the rocks ambering from side to side, “Heya chums, how’s ya doin’?”

“Ah,” Kya sighed, pausing from examining the water clarity, “usually I’d correct your negative thoughts, but there are only a few perfect spots to tan and have our feet in the water.”

The river, usually a blue to green, had turned murky from the rain runoff from the aftermath of the atmospheric weather front. A boat speed by causing the water to sploosh against the rocks.

Kya preened an itchy spot. Assessing the sun with one eye. It’s beams seemed to be yellow. Regularly they were orange.

Leon chuckled, avoiding the splash zone, “Ha, for once ye ain’t the cherry bloom growin’ in green grass on the sunny hillside,” glancing at Mac who was observing something in the distance, “Whatcha lookin’ at mate?”

Mac grunted scrutinizing a worm wiggling into the squishy dirt.

Leon ruffled his feathers extending one leg and then the other. Repeating the same sequence with his wings. “You know mate I don’t speak grunt I speak quack.” Scooting closer in, “Is that worm speakin’ to ya?”

“We speak english not quack,” Kya corrected. “Of course they don’t understand,” pointing to a fisherman with her wing walking on the pavement above the, “but it’s still the same language.”

“Whatever you say mada’m,” Leon stretches.

“It’s not whatever I say, it’s the truth.”

“Then explain the truth that we speak English as they do but ain’t got understandin’.”

“Stop bickering like kids. Look,” Mac warned, “we’ve got guests. The wholesome fishermen due; father and son.”

Kya cooed, “Aww. How sweet.”

The ducks fell silent as the father and son approached, their figures going dark and light from the light seeming through the leaves above. Their footsteps are amplified by crunchy gravel.

Leon plopped down on the shore, feet swarmed by cool water, the rest of his body made constance with a rock that was warm from absorbing heat from the high sun. He groans, “Here we go again.”

The river had filled considerably due to the weekend atmospheric river now pushing south. Hence the struggle by fishermen and wildlife to find pleasant spots to fish, watch passing boats, or listen to the content birds sing songs of praise in the treetops.

However, Leon failed to notice these signs of life, focusing only on the newcomers progressing at the speed of a car that ran out of gas. “I ain’t scootin’ by bum nowhere."

“Nobody asked you too,” Kya snapped.

“Fair ‘nough.”

Mac added, “These seem to be friendly though,” strapping at the ground for a worm he thought he saw. “They don’t have those big red things.”

“Coolers,” Kya says. “The red things are coolers,” wiggling her wings.

Mac lifts his feathers. “Sure.”

Leon ruffles his feathers as a patch of faint gray clouds hide the sun, “Glad I’ve got myself a friend of knowledge. But I knew that already.”

Kya shakes her head. Muttering, “Right.”

Mac grunts. “What about me?” Scratching the ground.

“You…you Mac are the friend of comfort.” Theatrically adding, “Lord of the Grunts.”

“Comfort?” Kya questions with skepticism.

“Yeah Kya,” Leon stood up,” ‘tis what I said. Comfort.”

Mac interrupts with a grunt. “Really? Grunts?”

“Oh,” Kya turns her head, “they’re coming.”

Down the path trod a man and his son. This spot was close to home and escaped from the noise of four females. A wife and three daughters. This was testosterone time, though the breeze threatened to swoop it up if not clutched dearly.

The dad fumbles with his pole caught in a low hanging branch. “I just brought the pole. I can’t break it, right?” Bursting into a laugh though, bags rested under his eyes.

“I wonder if we’ll catch a big one,” the son excitedly said, swinging his orange metal box.

“Your mama is always talking. I’m just practicing. This is for fun.” Smiling, like his statement was the punchline at the end of a commercial.

The son begins to wander and explore as dad sets up.

Kya, Leon, and Mac watch in silence.

“He better not come over here,” Leon warns.

Kya ruffles her feathers, changing positions. “This is a public park.”

“You feelin’ the same to litters, mate?”

“No. It’s a public park for them too, they just need to clean-up.”

“But they don’t. Otherwise that spot by the ferns would be usable.”

Mac grunts. “They don’t have bags.”

Leon turns his fluorescent head. “Why does that matter?”

“Food.”

“If we want food,” Kya edges toward the water, “we can go to the picnic tables.”

“I ain’t eatin’ stale fries.”

“Good worms Leon. It was just a suggestion.”

“Your suggestions are commands.”

“No.”

Leon nudges Mac, “Can I get a witness, mate?”

He glances at one mallard to the other in disgust, turning his back to them. “No comment.”

Leon snickered the only way a duck could. “Loo at ‘em.”

The mallards forwarded their attention to the father and son.

“Hey. Come here I’m going to teach you a knot.”

The sun bundled his sticks into a half-tamed bouquet.

“Are you watching?”

The son laid down his sticks and padded to his fathers side.

The father explains. “This is a new knot. A real tight one.”

“To keep from losing baits?”

Tilting his head the father adjusted the sinking pole tusked under an arm. “Something like that.”

The sone watched attentively, only visions straying once to examine the people on the nearby trail.

His father says the steps, “Loop, swoop, pull- no not, like that…I missed a step…Okay. Okay. I got it.”

His distraction didn’t play well. His father was done. Rotating the knot in this hand, a bump of twisted wire.

“There,” he proclaimed proudly.

“Let’s try it,” the son gathered his sticks and strutted to the waters edge.

“Don’t get wet- Oh man,” slipping on a damp slick rock. Gathering his composure, “your mama doesn’t want you wet.”

“Yes,” the son said, stacking his sticks into the shape of a cabin.

The father threw out his pole with force, hissing through the air.

Mac grunted.

Leon laughed. “He threw it nowhere!”

The father blinked twice.

The son stopped building his lodge.

The line had somehow retracted and formed a bird's nest of twine.

“How? Ugh. It didn’t even get to the water.” The father gingerly leaned on a rock and began to untangle his line.

Mac turned around to stare. “This is interesting.”

“And think,” Leon added, “if we went to the picnic tables we’d miss it.”

Kya shook her head.

The breeze blew softer. Squirrels peered in the tree chasing each other as if a law commanded a never ending game of chase.

The sun incremented lower in the horizon when the father triumphantly whispered. “It’s untangled.” Then to his son, “I’m going to try again.”

He threw, this time harder.

The line soared like an arch and landed in a bush.

Leon shouted, “He shoots. And he fails.”

Kya preens her left wing, “Give him a break. He’s practicing."

“It's the wind,” the son teased. His father often said that when playing ball and his aim was off.

It was the wind's fault. Always was, always will. Even if it wasn’t breezy.

“I can get it,” the son proclaimed, ripping off shoes and socks to expose bare feet to the chill.

Father nodded approval. “One more time,” checking his watch. “Its almost dinnertime," squirting more ‘special sauce’ over his Walmart dollar bait.

The son, finished with his cabin, looked on in amusement and doubt.

He threw once more.

The line arched and landed in a nearby tree.

Mac grunts. “He should throw in the left direction.”

Leon craned his head but Kya cut him off.

“Mac knows his fishing. He watches them all the time.”

Now it was Leon’s turn to grunt.

The father exhaled deeply. Tossing up his arms. “Really? Today is just not the day, huh?”

The father tugged and teased trying to ease off the line.

Snap.

The branch recoiled from the tension to its original position now adored with a plastic purple worm.

“What do you think? One more time?” Digging in his tackle box and tying on a new bait.

The no-shoed-wet-feet son nodded. “We have to catch the big one,” snickering at his own joke.

The father chuckled, throwing his line.

It landed in the water two inches from Leon’s foot.

“I almost just died!” Leon exclaimed.

“It’s a hook,” Kya bluntly said.

Mac scratched the ground, “Hmm.”

“I don’t understand-” the father grumbled, winding in his line.

“It wasn’t even windy,” the son chimed.

“No, it wasn't,” the father waved to the scampering ducks. “Sorry. My bad.”

Leon mutters, “At least he apologized.”

“Like I said, they were sweet.”

Mac grunted.

The river whooshed.

People chatted on the trail.

The squirrels played chase.

Leon, Kya, and Mac went on to bicker, observe and criticize every oncoming fishermen. Talking about their habits of littering, big red things, and trapped lines.