The Old Farmer laughed so hard he had to grab the fence.
Behind him, six other farmers joined in.
Their laughter rolled across the vegetable rows and reached the Young Farm Woman before the first duck had even crossed the gate.
She stood with both hands wrapped around the handle of a hoe.
Her blue work dress was streaked with soil from the knees down.
A cream apron hung crooked over her waist.
Her hair had loosened from its pins during the morning and several strands stuck to her damp face.
Beside her, the Young Farm Man held a coil of rope.
His gray work shirt was dark with sweat.
Brown suspenders crossed his chest.
He looked toward the fence.
Then toward the ducks.
Then back toward the fence.
The Old Farmer pointed.
“Sixty.”
The men behind him laughed again.
“Sixty blind ducks.”
The Young Farm Woman tightened her grip around the hoe.
The Old Farmer continued.
“You could have bought seed.”
No answer.
“You could have bought fertilizer.”
Still nothing.
“You could have hired three good men for harvest.”
The Young Farm Man dropped the rope into the dirt.
The Old Farmer grinned.
“But instead you bought birds that can’t even see their own feet.”
One duck bumped into another.
That made the crowd howl.
The Young Farm Woman closed her eyes for a second.
Then opened them.
The ducks moved awkwardly between the vegetable rows.
Most were pale white.
A few had gray or brown patches.
Their eyes were clouded.
Some could distinguish light from darkness.
Others appeared to see almost nothing.
But their heads never stopped moving.
They listened.
Turned.
Pecked.
Paused.
Listened again.
One found a worm.
Another snapped at something beneath a leaf.
The Old Farmer slapped the fence.
“Look at that.”
“Half of them don’t know where they’re going.”
The Young Farm Man stepped toward the fence.
The Woman caught his sleeve.
He stopped.
She shook her head.
Not worth it.
The Old Farmer saw.
“Smart.”
“Keep him quiet.”
The Young Farm Man’s jaw tightened.
The Woman finally spoke.
“Are you finished?”
The Old Farmer smiled.
“Not until I understand.”
She looked at him.
“Understand what?”
“What kind of fool pays actual money for broken livestock?”
The Young Farm Man moved again.
This time the Woman did not stop him immediately.
He reached the edge of the row.
The Old Farmer folded his arms.
The Young Farm Man said only:
“Get off my field.”
The laughter weakened.
Not because the words were loud.
Because they were not.
The Old Farmer looked at the ground.
He was technically standing just inside the fence line.
He stepped backward.
“There.”
“Happy?”
The Young Farm Man picked up the rope again.
“No.”
The Old Farmer smiled.
“That makes two of us.”
The crowd stayed.
They had not come for conversation.
They had come to watch failure.
Everybody in the valley knew about the ducks.
Three days earlier, a livestock trader had brought them through town.
Sixty birds.
All partially or completely blind.
Most had survived an illness when young.
The infection was gone.
The damage remained.
The trader wanted them gone.
He offered the entire flock for less than the price of six healthy laying hens.
Nobody wanted them.
Then the Young Farm Woman stopped beside the wagon.
She listened to the birds.
Not watched.
Listened.
Their feet shuffled against the wooden floor.