Jim has trained all season for the annual pond race. The competition is fierce: a speedy merganser, a showy swan, and a sneaky heron. Jim lines up at the reeds, heart pounding.

The signal sounds. Jim surges forward — and immediately spots something bobbing in the water ahead. A duckling has wandered into the course. Jim has to choose: win the race or save the chick.

Jim discovers that someone has been stealing seeds from the feeder after dark. He recruits two skeptical sparrows to help him stake out the garden. The moon rises; the shadows shift.

Just when they are about to give up, a rustling comes from the bushes. Jim flaps into the open — and comes face to face with the culprit: a very embarrassed raccoon holding an empty bowl.

Jim's favorite iridescent feather has fallen into the creek and is floating toward the rapids. He dives in and paddles after it, past the rocks and the fallen branch. His friends call from the bank, but he will not turn back.

He reaches the feather just as the current quickens. He grabs it — and feels something else brush his wing. A tiny fish has hitched a ride, and it is not letting go.

Jim has decided to become the pond's official weather duck. He stands on the old log and delivers a forecast based on cloud shape, wind, and the way his feathers feel. The other ducks are doubtful. A storm is brewing.

Jim predicts sun. The clouds part. He is a hero — until the next morning, when he predicts calm and the biggest wind of the year blows in. The ducks look at him. Jim shrugs and points at a passing butterfly.

Jim oversleeps and misses his flock's departure. He sets out alone, following the stars and his instincts. Along the way he meets a lost goose, a confused crane, and a pelican who insists they are all going the wrong way.

They reach a vast lake at dusk. On the far shore, thousands of ducks lift into the sky. Jim's flock is there — and so is the family he did not know he had been looking for.