Story Time at Mayapple Farm — The Night the Ducks Went Missing

It was quiet in a way that didn’t feel right.

The kind of quiet that makes you stop what you’re doing and listen harder.

The adults were unsettled, voices louder than usual, calling out into the dark. Somewhere downstream, something answered—but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. No soft duck chatter. No little voices. Just distance.

For a while, there was nothing.

And in that nothing, your mind does what it does best—it fills in the worst.

I imagined them scattered, frightened, running where they shouldn’t be. I imagined the creek carrying more than water. I imagined heavy loss.

Morning came anyway, sleep didn’t.

Coffee first. Because you don’t go looking for hard truths without it.

I let the adults out, and they ran straight for the creek, heading downstream like they knew something I didn’t. I followed, expecting… something.

Instead, I heard it.

A familiar noise. Loud. Confident. Almost annoyed.

The adults coming back.

My heart sank.

Just them.

And for a moment, I thought that was it.

But then—

Movement, hope.

Small shapes.

Every single one of the teens came pouring back in like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t spent a night out in the dark, figuring things out the hard way. Like it was just another morning.

They gathered close, talking all at once, crowding in, excited, hungry, alive.

No fear left. No loss.

Just ducks.

Sometimes the land teaches you in quiet ways.

And sometimes it reminds you—loud and all at once—that not everything lost is gone.

Some things just take the scenic route home.