On a warm, overcast fall morning the fish were jumping all across the pond. With every stroke of the paddle, there was a flash under water or ripples on the surface. Baitfish skittered. Lazy insects disappeared in loud slurps. Fish shot out of the water, presumably for the joy only comprehendible to the simple mind of a fish. It was a beautiful sunrise scene.

Except for the fact that I didn’t have a fly rod. I did have a shotgun. And there were no ducks.

Animals are smart. But they’re animal smart. That is totally different than human smart. Their brains are, biologically speaking, basic. They can’t do math, conjugate verbs, or form opinions on geopolitical matters. They can stay alive, though. That is more important than algebra. Dare I say that it is more important than most of what is discussed on cable news.

So even though I routinely anthropomorphize trout, I am completely aware that they’re empirically vacuous. I know their IQ is unmeasurable. I also know that they possess some supernatural sight beyond sight wherein they can sense my intentions when I enter the woods. Here’s what I mean:

I’ll sit in a turkey blind and the deer will prance around, broadside, in front of me.

A week later, during deer season, the turkey will fly out of the tree above my stand to land below me and feed for hours.

Stopping on a bridge during a walk or jog, trout will fin and rise beneath my shadow.

Stealthily sneaking up on the same trout with fly rod in hand and I will find nothing aside from a startled sucker or two.

Kayaking loudly with my children, the ducks will sit and watch us – some even swimming closer to investigate the spectacle.

Kayaking quietly in camouflage, the ducks will take flight well out of shotgun range.

It’s not paranoia because I know that it is happening. I’ve experienced wildlife manifest ESP far too many times to even question their connection to the dark arts. Or, at the very least, some sort of hive-mind or ancestor knowledge.

I’m not alone, either. My hunting buddy has a ritual that he performs in an attempt to circumvent the third-eye of the game we’re pursuing. Since the ducks and geese inevitably fly as soon as we pick up the decoys to leave, he loudly pronounced “we’re picking up the decoys now!” Following this incantation, we all shoulder our shotguns and wait for the barrage of waterfowl. It usually works. Sometimes.

Skeptics could chalk all of this up to seasonal variables. Or legitimate human impacts that we can’t perceive. Or confirmation bias. Or the Mandela Effect. But that all sounds way too far-fetched. Occam’s Bass, Duck, Trout, Deer, etc. all prove without a shadow of a doubt that nature is a scarily canny web of mystical creatures.

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This past week I sat in a New England swamp. A family of otters frolicked in front of me. A heron stalked the shallows. A six-point buck scrambled up the hillside. A bald eagle perched above the scene. One could remark at how picturesque, serene, and glorious the scene was. But I knew the sinister truth behind it all. And there were no ducks.