On Sunday, a stubborn Mallard perched himself on top of my Grandma's shed. The children were playing with rubber balls in the yard surrounding, but took time out to yell at him, attempting to bellow him into disruption- he wouldn't budge. I approached close beneath him reverently, thinking perhaps he was upright dead. I noticed facial scarring in the shape of a fight, in addition to 1 astonishingly bright purple feather at his wing, clearly beautiful. In what seemed like a backwards offense taken by my admiration, he flew away all haughty (though he endured child bullying?).
Anyhow, I've now been image searching duck feathers all week like I've got the blue ball.
After the cue of the duck's departure, Grandpa lurched out of the house and jesterly threatened the children..."I'm gonna WATER THE LAWN!", laughing feebly with rasping undertones of heartiness.
Amelia, in her unconsciously whipsmart reflex, turned the sprinkler on to realize his threat. Everybody scattered, upon which she did it two more times.