As the soft light of dawn kissed Cedar Pond’s surface, colors rippled across the water’s edge, like a painter’s hesitant stroke, capturing the slow, deliberate awakening of the season. The air hummed with the gentle quacks of awakening resident ducks, their voices a melody that intertwined with the silence, a silence saturated with a constant undercurrent of imbalance and tension - like a day questioning the wind.

A group of ducklings near the shore argued fiercely over the fate of the coming season, their words sharp and clipped in the cool morning air, their feathers ruffling in indignation.

“Summer’s overrated!” one duck snapped, his voice rising in protest. “Autumn’s better, no doubt. We’ve all had enough of this heat. Give me cool winds and harvest shades over this inferno.”

“Too soon for that season talk!” another quacked back, her voice defensive, as though protecting something fragile. “Autumn has barely even begun! You’re ruining the mood!”

The bickering escalated, tempers flaring like the sun cresting the horizon. Cedar Pond, however, though it cradled the ruckus, knew this discord well. It was no stranger to storms—whether of wind or will. The quarrel was less about the seasons and more about something unspoken, something rooted deep, like the ancient oak that guarded the far bank. This was no idle chatter; they argued because they believed.

But Dexter and his group? They were the constant of Cedar Pond. They didn’t argue with others at all.

Nestled in the tall grasses by the shore, they watched—silent, still, like sentinels. Their gazes were fixed on the pond, steady and unyielding, as if they drew their strength from the water’s calm surface. Dexter sat at the forefront, his weathered feathers blending into the earth tones of the landscape. His eyes were sharp—quiet, yet full of a depth borne from living through many battles and learning the value of silence.

The world could spin around them, but Dexter and his group remained unbothered, not because they didn’t care, but because peace was their bread. Leadership, for Dexter, was not about commanding or conquering—it was about knowing when to hold your ground, and when to remain still. His gaze never wavered as he surveyed the scene before him. In his stillness, there was a message: strength is not in motion, but in the readiness to act—should the need arise.

Dexter didn’t need words. His group’s silent poise said everything. They were not afraid. They had simply chosen the power of indifference, a stillness so profound it could shatter the world around them with a single movement.

As the morning fog wound its way through the trees, and the air clung thick with the last breaths of summer, the silence finally broke.

Jared Stone passed the arguing ducklings and arrived fresh from his self-proclaimed "DUCKMANIA!" workout. His feathers puffed with youthful arrogance, his chest swelled with bravado, and his voice pierced the morning air with a challenge.

In an effort at impressing the arguing juniors, he set his sights on Dexter and crew. “Dexter!” he called, his words thick with confidence, but empty with the recklessness of adolescence. “Summer’s the best, obviously! Forget autumn, forget spring. You can’t beat the heat. Everything else is just… overrated. You get me?”

Dexter didn’t flinch. He didn’t acknowledge the brashness of the younger duck. His gaze remained locked on the tranquil pond, as if the world around him was unaware of Jared’s presence.

Jared’s bravado faltered. But he pressed on, his voice growing louder, desperate for a response. “You don’t even have an opinion, huh? Too busy sitting there, pretending you’ve got it all figured out? I bet you like winter, right? It’s the worst.”

A long pause. Long enough for Jared’s words to ripple across the surface of the pond. Dexter’s eyes shifted—just the smallest movement. But that was enough. A shift in the air, a spark, as if the silence had been holding its breath.

Jared looked over at the audience he was seeking to impress, and noticed they were losing faith in his approach. He leaned in on Dexter more, his voice now a razor. “What’s your deal, huh? Hiding behind that ‘peace’ nonsense? You don’t care. You just don’t care.”

The tension in the air was wound. The pond waited for something far beyond words. Dexter remained still, unshaken. He didn’t need to speak. The younger ducklings mimicking the still silence for reasons of intrigue.

Jared, frustrated by the silence, pushed further. “You think you’ve got all the answers just because you sit there calm? You’re nothing.”

And then, without warning, the stillness shattered.

From Jared’s blind spot, Dexter’s wing moved. His companions, in perfect unison, shifted. Their bodies leaned slightly toward the pond, as if channeling the collective weight of their presence.

And then, as Jared took a final step toward confrontation, without a moment’s hesitation, the group erupted.

QUUUUUUUUUU-WAAAAAAACK!

The sound was deafening. A thunder of authority that seemed to rip the very air in two. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a statement, a declaration that resonated deep in Jared’s core. It wasn’t a call for attention; it was a command. A force that could not be ignored.

His bravado crumbled like the fragile shell of a bird who had just encountered the storm. His wings fluttered helplessly. For a moment, he was no longer a duck full of self-importance, but a creature overwhelmed by something far greater than himself. The air returned from its parting and regrouped.

The ripples from his and the other young ducklings retreat mimicked their frantic escape, like the pattern of a rock skipped from shore. Jared sped away, head low, his wings heavy with defeat. His beak burned with the sting of shame. He glanced over his shoulder, but there were no words, only the weight of the truth that lingered in Dexter’s immediate return to indifference.

In that moment, doubt bloomed.

Jared’s father’s voice echoed in his mind—demanding strength, control, ambition. Peace, like Dexter’s, was weakness. He had always believed that. But now, as he swam farther from the group, something gnawed at him—a seed of doubt. Was his father right? Or was there something more to Dexter’s methods?

Jared shook the thought away, focusing on the path ahead. Ambition. Control. Strength. These were the things that mattered. Peace was a lie. And someday, he would show them all. Someday, Jared Stone would make them see things his way. His father's words channeling through him.

But the encounters were not finished for the day.

Lost in thought, Jared didn’t notice he was closing in on Jim until the collision came. BUMP!

It wasn’t painful, but it was jarring. Both ducks staggered, another moment of possible eruption. Jared muttered, “Ugh, move it, Jim,” before brushing past him. Jim’s eyes barely registered the shift, his expression unreadable, his response absent. But the insult lingered.

“Me, move it?” Jim thought, feeling the words scrape across his ego like sandpaper. He watched Jared’s retreating figure briefly annoyed his wit didn’t meet Jared’s mutterings.

Jim, unlike Jared, didn’t have the crutch of a father’s guiding hand. His father had been taken too soon, leaving an emptiness that no strength could fill.

Jim didn’t share Jared’s worldview, nor his father’s voice haunting him. Jim had something different—a quiet strength that came from within, from a place grounded deeper than ambition or control. He didn’t need to dominate. He understood the weight of doing what was right, regardless of the noise.

As the sound of Jared’s wings faded, Jim realized the time had come to act. He was late for school. A determined flap of his wings, and the air sliced with his flight.

The pond settled once again, peaceful and undisturbed—but beneath the surface, the ripples always spread, gaining momentum for the next wave.

In Cedar Pond, peace wasn’t the absence of conflict. It was the power to choose when to let go of the noise.