In early September in a cove on a large lake in Maine, you may watch the three o’clock duck patrol come by. And the four, five and six o’clock duck patrol. The seven o’clock duck polices the sunset, lingering during but ignoring the display of fireworks as the sun sinks below the low ridge across the water.

The night belongs to the loons with ghostly cries and laughter echoing across the lake — until the seven o’clock morning duck sweeps their dream world away with its matter-of-fact show me the money chatter about who comes first what happens where and how you can get some good bread out of unsuspecting strangers.

Duck Triptych 1