The hayfield was high, the stream low for mid-May as I descended the compacted farm road to a sunken meadow I visit daily with dogs Lily and Buddy, along a placid stretch of the Green River, still, knee-deep flat-water pooling above a sharp S-turn.

I was two-thirds of the way down a short decline to the Christmas-tree field when I heard a duck and spotted a mallard drake flying low along the water. It touched down 100 yards downstream, tantalizing Lily as she stood motionless along the bank, watching. Then the duck again flew when it caught me breaking into the clearing. The irritated green-head elevated high over the tall, streamside softwoods and circled the 10- or 12-acre plot, scolding us from above, eventually drawing Buddy’s attention along the back edge of the field. When he heard the quacking, he looked skyward, saw the duck and sprinted below it back in our direction. He gave up on the airborne duck upon reaching us and proceeded along what has become a familiar route, following a thin riverbank woods line to a small camper and circling back toward the truck along an alder wetland lip framing this quiet slice of Connecticut Valley paradise, songbirds everywhere. Along the loop, Buddy flushed red-winged blackbirds, starlings, robins, you name it, with his joyous, light ballet gait.

As we swung north down the homestretch — Buddy running big, working wide quarters, still flushing everything in his path — I noticed him stop and focus on something, nose high, ears alert. He lowered his head, moved in slowly toward the base of an infant Christmas tree and flushed a mallard hen a foot or two from his snout. Lily, 10 yards behind, noticed the flying duck and tore after it as Buddy watched briefly before sticking his nose into the spot vacated by the duck. Curious, I called him off with “leave it.” He picked up his head, caught Lily sprinting over the washed-out riverbank and promptly followed her, giving me an opportunity to investigate his find. Sure enough, a nest with five large eggs. I skirted the site as the scolding hen and drake circled above, called the dogs and went back to the truck for the return trip home.

On the walk up the road to a closed, galvanized gate, I noticed another mallard drake floating on the flat water above the S-turn. Perhaps he too had contributed to that nest. One never knows.

I guess, now, for a week or so, I’ll have to find another spot to run the dogs. Those eggs will soon become nestlings, and I wouldn’t want to disturb them at the wrong time, before they’ve found river protection. By then, the sunken meadow will be back to normal, providing a secluded natural playground where dogs can romp free and unrestrained, the way it’s meant to be, for bird and beast and man.