Duck Lake little dark age

No. Another catch, impossible.

He turned back. The rest of the ducks were gone, wings outstretched on some distant draft. Feathers floated around him— tail feathers, flight feathers, down feathers, caught on the same surface tension that let bugs walk on water. 

The duck's head lolls to the side. Its open mouth was wet and red. He puts a paw over one of its twisted wings, tries and fails not to let the shaking show. 

And where was mamá? Far away. Dead in a tar pit about two hundred miles down south. Cause of death was lack of oxygen but he knew subconsciously that the real cause was desperation. For a while he had been proud of himself for succeeding where she had failed, but desperation was the very emotion that was overwhelming him now. 

One last warning snarl.