Last night, I found out where the good ducks go when the sun goes down.
We got lost a few times, but we eventually figured our way home after more than ten miles and and an hour had gone.
About twenty minutes into it, we found the secret sacred spot of ducky delight. There were over a hundred or so dark shapes moving around, the pitch of their voice suggesting black bellied whistling ducks. A few larger pale shapes wandered around near the middle of them by the edge of an isle, and I rather think these might have been my roseatte spoonbills from earlier in the week. This spot was not too far from the other, if you are the flying type.