The unblinking eye of Surveillance Camera 7, typically tasked with monitoring the perimeter of the city’s largest botanical garden, usually captured nothing more exciting than a rogue squirrel attempting to pilfer birdseed or a particularly amorous pair of pigeons. Its field of vision encompassed the tranquil duck pond, a miniature haven of reedy shores and placid waters where mallards, Pekins, and Muscovies conducted their daily affairs with predictable, quacking dignity.
Then came Tuesday afternoon, 2:17 PM.
A sudden, vibrant splash of crimson and gold bled into the otherwise muted green-brown palette of the screen. It wasn’t organic, certainly not feathered. The object, initially a distant speck, grew rapidly, tumbling with an almost theatrical grace through the upper frame. It was a kite – a magnificent, dragon-headed creation, its long, scale-patterned tail whipping wildly behind it like a distressed serpent.
The ducks, hitherto engaged in serious discussions about prime grub-hunting spots and the merits of competitive preening, froze. A half-submerged mallard, mid-dip, emerged with a confused, weed-draped head, his beady eyes fixed on the aerial intruder. The pond’s surface, usually a tapestry of ripples and reflected clouds, now mirrored the erratic descent of the fantastic beast.
The kite, clearly having escaped the joyous grasp of a child in the nearby park, was not merely flying over the ducks’ habitat; it was flying into it. With a final, agonizing wobble, its sharp, painted snout dipped, its colourful body shivered, and then, with a soft, papery sigh, it landed. Not on the water, but with surprising precision, skewering itself on the tallest clump of cattails at the pond’s edge, its long, tattered tail fluttering just above a drowsy Pekin duck’s head.
The ensuing chaos was a masterclass in avian panic and curiosity. The drowsy Pekin, startled by the sudden shadow and unexpected tail-whack, erupted in an indignant squawk, propelling itself into the water with a splash that sent ripples across the whole pond. Other ducks, a moment ago rigid with alarm, now paddled furiously in circles, craning their necks, their collective quacks rising in a crescendo of alarm and speculation. One particularly brave, or perhaps foolish, Muscovy cautiously waddled towards the impaled kite, pecking tentatively at its glossy, alien surface before retreating with a disgusted head shake.
On the other side of the monitor, security guard Ted, mid-sip of lukewarm coffee, choked. He’d seen a lot in his years – lost dogs, illicit fishing, even a streaker once – but never a kite, a dragon kite, attempting to colonize the duck pond. He rewound the footage, watching the surreal descent again, a slow grin spreading across his face. The unblinking surveillance camera, usually a harbinger of disciplinary action or incident reports, had for once captured something utterly, beautifully absurd: a fleeting moment of unexpected magic and mild pandemonium, delivered straight from the sky into the mundane, quacking heart of the duck kingdom. It was a story no one would believe without the cold, hard, digital evidence. And for Ted, it made an otherwise very long, dull Tuesday, unexpectedly, wonderfully, worth watching.
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