The duck, noting chill air and dusky sky, takes off. In arrow-sharp formation, his squadron flaps out many a message: Winter's coming. Who needs Waze? Take that, chickens!
Surely the fellowship of poultry must be strained by the skill-set divide. Ducks and geese and pheasants and pigeons fly. Chickens don't.
The chef remains unmoved by such distinctions. He roasts goose or squab or capon and serves each with sweet-tart chutney.
Duck, however, resists such typecasting. Its meat is dark red and best rare. Seared and sliced like steak, it serves up many a message: Winter's coming. Who needs to wander? Take that, chicken!
