Carol and I were coming back from an evening walk down to the waterfront, walking across the pedestrian overpass that gets you over Route 18. Car horns blared below us, a couple of cars swerved. Carol said, “Oh, no, watch out, little duck!”

A duck was trying waddle its way across the four lanes of hectic Route 18 traffic. It made it, barely, without being hit. The human beings driving the cars may have been cursing the duck, but they had enough sympathy to avoid running it over.

“Let’s go down and see what’s up with that duck,” I said. I couldn’t understand why it didn’t fly up out of the way. Was it hurt?

We hurried down the other side of the overpass. There was the duck, waddling up the cobblestone street. “That’s a Wood Duck!” I said. I couldn’t imagine what a young female Wood Duck, a wary and secretive bird, would be doing in densely-populated downtown New Bedford.

It did not appear to be hurt. It just looked very scared. When it saw us, it headed back towards Route 18. We herded it the other direction, towards a patch of weeds. It almost flew towards the weeds, so we knew its wings weren’t broken. By the time we got up to the weeds, it was no longer visible. I suspect it was hatched this summer, making its first trip south, confused and scared.

“Poor little duck,” said Carol.

“Maybe a little rest and it will be ready to fly,” I said.

Carol started telling me about the movie “Winged Migration,” which depicts the death of more than a few birds during migration. Downtown New Bedford is not a good place for Wood Ducks; I hope the one we saw tonight makes it out alive.