As I lay in my blind, I hear the faint call of a hen mallard.

 Then the distinct whistle of a hundred mallards flying overhead.

They circle the spread like first hatched mosquitoes around bare skin.

Mesmerizing movements, the sun glistens off their wings,

eridesect blues, purples. 

They lock up, the tips of their wings touching beneath their feet, still airborne, descending fast. 

Dipping and diving, they fell like oak leaves on a late September day.

Different shades of iridescent emerald and cobalt reflect back in the morning sun,

so close I could reach out and touch them.

I sit ever so still, even the slightest movement could cause them to flair. 

I feel my heart rise in my chest,

it beats harder, louder, faster.

I wait for the call.

The mallards swing back around,

they cut in front of our blinds, turned almost vertical.

A few mallards break off from the group,

they come in close, 

I begin waiting to hear every waterfowl hunters favorite words.

KILL ‘EM!

There is an explosion of movement from the blinds.

The unmistakable sound of one hundred mallards back peddling with their wings.

I throw my blind open, pick out a drake.

I pull the trigger.

 It looks like someone blew on the head of an old dandelion.

Feathers drift towards the frost covered corn,

falling softly, as the first snowfall.

The sun catches the feathers and casts a slowly descending shadow.

I stop and look out into a frosty field,

glowing an angelic gold in the morning sun.

All is quiet now, except for a cardinal chirping in the distance. 

I emerge from my blind to retrieve the mallard.

I find it a few yards from my blind:

a drake.

As I hold it in my hands, I see how beautiful it is,

greens turning to purple in the morning sunlight,

four curling tail feathers, black as a raven.

And I think,

there is a hidden beauty in everything,

even in the things we see everyday.