Spa chick

Late spring is just ducky in DC. A museum officer reportedly stopped traffic along a main thoroughfare to allow a mother and her chicks to cross the road, only later to scoop them into a duck bucket and move them to the nearest body of water. The city is dotted by water fountains, the condo-version of lakes and oceans. Artificialized ponds with running clear water, surrounded by a constant supply of chips and burger buns wheedled from the knapsacks of migrating tourists. No wonder there are six boy ducks in my favorite watering hole today. A fraternity, alternately preening and tossing, napping and flapping. The noisiest bunch, though are the tiny tawny birds that visit the Haupt Garden behind the Castle. Between the rose garden and the African Art museum, with a rippling cascade and of round gurgling basins at each planting corner, connected with channels of water. On purpose or not, they are the perfect bird baths. Once in, the big shove the small, there are cliques, there are loud mouths, there are lookouts. Dozens indulge at once, chattering away, flipping droplets all around, wary of intruding humans.