The Young Farm Man stared.
The Old Farmer looked at her differently.
She added:
“You help move them.”
“Yes.”
“You follow our instructions.”
He hesitated.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“And if I say the flock is tired, they stop.”
“Yes.”
“Even if beetles remain.”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The Young Farm Man sighed.
“I hate when you become reasonable.”
She smiled.
“You married it.”
Transporting sixty blind ducks sounded easier than it was.
They used two wagons with low-sided crates and straw.
The Old Farmer rode ahead.
People saw.
By the time they reached his land, half the valley knew.
That humiliation probably hurt him more than the beetles.
His family waited near the field.
His adult son looked shocked.
“You brought the ducks.”
The Old Farmer said:
“Yes.”
Nothing else.
No explanation.
The Young Farm Woman inspected the damage.
Worse than expected.
Potatoes.
Beans.
Young squash.
Beetles concentrated heavily along two damp margins.
She released half the flock first.
The ducks worked.
Efficiently.
Not magically.
Plants still suffered.
Some beetles escaped.
But numbers dropped.
The Old Farmer’s son stared.
“How are they doing that blind?”
The Young Farm Woman answered:
“They’ve been blind longer than they were sighted.”
“They adapted.”
He watched.
“Can they smell them?”
“Probably some.”
“Hear movement too.”
“Touch.”
“Experience.”
The son nodded slowly.
Then asked:
“So they aren’t helpless.”
The Old Farmer heard.
His face tightened.
The Woman looked toward him.
“No.”
“They never were.”
That sentence hurt more than she intended.
Or perhaps exactly enough.
The flock spent six hours there.
Then stopped.
The Old Farmer wanted another hour.
The Woman refused.
“They’re tired.”
“My west rows are still covered.”
“Tomorrow.”
“They could be gone tomorrow.”
“So could the ducks if we exhaust them.”
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the flock.
Then nodded.
That evening, more farmers arrived at the Young Couple’s farm.
Not laughing.
Asking.
“How much?”
“Can they come Tuesday?”
“My beans first.”
“My cabbage is worse.”
“I’ll pay double.”
The Young Farm Woman stood in the barnyard and listened.
The Young Farm Man stood beside her.
Sixty ducks rested behind them.
For the first time, the couple understood the scale of the problem.
One flock.
Dozens of farms.
Impossible.
The Young Farm Man whispered:
“We can make more money in one week than vegetables all month.”
She shook her head.
“The birds can’t do that.”