The Duck in the Quiet Stream

When we arrived in Idaho, we set up our camp deep in the forest. Not far from where we pitched our tent, there was a small stream—quiet, shimmering, almost hidden between the tall grasses. The water carried that kind of silence you don’t hear in cities, the kind that makes you breathe slower.

As I walked closer, I noticed a lone duck gliding across the surface.

It wasn’t in a rush. It wasn’t looking for anything. Just drifting, as if it belonged completely to that moment, to that place.

I grabbed my camera and took a few shots—trying to capture not just the bird, but the stillness of the water, the texture of the reeds, the feeling of being unseen and undisturbed.

Later, sitting on a camp chair, I watched as the duck slowly drifted toward the thick reeds at the edge of the stream. For a second, it looked like it had disappeared into safety.

But then—the sound came. Sharp, sudden. The duck was gone.

It was bitter. Sad.

The forest had reminded me that beauty and loss often live side by side. That what looks eternal can vanish in a moment.