Duck Lake little dark age

On the way here, he remembers what his mother had told him. He'd been maybe only four months old, walking with her through the Mojave for days without food nor water when he lost his footing and fell end over end into a karst. Mamá had slid down to save him, to drag him up again. She was panting. With his scruff in her mouth, she'd told him this: 

La proxima vez, no podré salvarte.

He watches the ducks from the lakeshore, sitting on their reflections. Every once in a while, they would test him, honking and flapping, before settling down again. 

They didn't fool him. He would be patient, sit quiet until one of them bit off more than they could chew. One of them always bobbed over, its head at a slant, smooth and dumb like a golf club. He swallows. His heart rate increases and he feels the surge of new blood go to his head. Ven aquí, ven aquí. So close, just one flying leap away, close enough to smell the oil on the feathers.