Bird flu devastated this duck farm — now it's making a comeback

The discovery of scores of dead and lethargic birds during a barn inspection in January signalled a devastating blow for Doug Corwin and his family's commercial duck farm on Long Island.
Within days, Crescent Duck Farm, a century-old institution and the last duck farm remaining in a New York region once synonymous with the culinary delicacy, became a casualty of the global avian flu outbreak.
The farm was forced to cull its entire flock, a fate shared by numerous other farms across the US, contributing to a significant surge in the prices of eggs and other agricultural commodities.
For Corwin, a 66-year-old fourth-generation farmer, the immediate aftermath was a stark reminder of the fragility of his family's legacy.
Now, with ducks hatched from eggs spared from the initial slaughter, Crescent Duck Farm is cautiously embarking on the arduous task of rebuilding.
Corwin's ambition extends beyond merely restoring the farm to its 100,000-bird capacity. He is determined to preserve the unique lineage of fowl that has allowed his family's enterprise to thrive for over a century, even as other Long Island duck farms fell by the wayside.
Yet, the shadow of another potential outbreak looms large. Corwin lives with the constant worry that a second wave of avian flu could finally spell the end for his family's enduring legacy.
"All I know is I don't want to be hit again," Corwin said. "If I go through this twice, I'm done as a duck farmer."
For months, Corwin and his reduced staff have been thoroughly sanitising the farm's dozens of barns, clearing out hay and debris, and replacing feeders, ventilation systems, wooden and metal structures and more.
At the end of May, the first wave of roughly 900 young ducks arrived from a nearby farm where they had been carefully raised in quarantine these last few months.
Another batch of 900 arrived last week and some 900 more will soon make their way to the roughly 140-acre (55-hectare) farm in Aquebogue, which is tucked among the vineyards and agricultural lands of Long Island's North Fork, about 80 miles (129 km) east of Manhattan.
By the end of next summer, Corwin hopes the first ducks will be ready to be processed and brought to market.
But he says he won't rush the reopening. It will be many more months — if ever — before the operation, which processed about 1 million ducks for consumption annually, returns to full capacity, he said.
'I keep telling people I'm running a high hurdle race,' Corwin said. 'I've got a lot a lot of steps to get back to where we were.'
Since 2022, the H5N1 strain of bird flu has been detected in all 50 states, leading to more than 1,700 recorded outbreaks affecting nearly 175 million birds, according to the most recent tally from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
The outbreak at Corwin's farm shows how this strain has inflicted more damage on a wider range of species than past variants, said Dr. Gavin Hitchener, director of Cornell University's Duck Research Laboratory, located a short drive away in Eastport.
Ducks have generally been less prone to serious illness and death than chickens and turkeys, he said. H5N1 is also vexing American cattle farmers after the virus jumped from fowl to cattle last year.
'Something has changed in the virus' makeup that has made it more virulent,' Hitchener said.
With no end to the bird flu pandemic in sight, Corwin worries he won't be able to weather another outbreak.
The farm received federal compensation for its euthanised ducks, but it wasn't nearly close to the market value of the birds — never mind the expense of rebuilding in a high cost region that also includes the Hamptons, he said.
Corwin hopes the federal government will, at long last, require poultry operators to vaccinate their livestock against bird flu. It's an uphill climb, given the Trump administration's deep skepticism of vaccines and the long-standing opposition of far larger, industrial poultry operations, he acknowledged.
'I would sleep an awful lot better at night. But right now I'm very nervous,' Corwin said. 'We're just playing with deck chairs on the Titanic.'
The ducks newly arrived on the farm are crucial to its revival.
Fully grown and approaching breeding age, the cohort of white Pekin ducks were all that survived from the more than 15,000 eggs state officials allowed the farm to spare from the winter culling after they tested negative for bird flu.
That means they and their progeny carry on the unique genetic makeup the farm has honed over generations of selective breeding to build its reputation.
Established in 1908 by Corwin's great-grandfather, Crescent Duck Farms has been the island's lone commercial duck operation for the better part of a decade. But in the early 1960s, Long Island boasted more than 100 farms producing about two-thirds of the nation's duck output.
'I feel I owe it to the ancestors of farmers who've been here all these years and have come this far to just make a go of it,' Corwin said. 'I want to make Long Island proud.'

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The anniversary of the Nicene Creed offers us an opportunity to reflect

Telegraph

26 minutes ago

Telegraph

The anniversary of the Nicene Creed offers us an opportunity to reflect

Every Sunday, in churches across the country, worshippers stand to affirm that they believe in 'one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth.' For many, these words are as familiar as the Lord's Prayer – part of the shared rhythm of worship and memory that shapes Christian life across generations. They are found in the Book of Common Prayer and in the contemporary language of services like Common Worship. They have been translated into nearly every language, and set to music by William Byrd, John Merbecke, and countless others. They echo in the cadences of Cathedral Choirs and the steady voice of Radio 4's Sunday Worship. Yet their roots lie far deeper, in an extraordinary moment of theological clarity 1,700 years ago. The Nicene Creed – as it is still commonly known – emerged from the Council of Nicaea in AD 325, the first gathering of Christian bishops from across the Roman Empire. It was a defining act of unity for a faith newly emerging from persecution and grappling with questions of identity. Was Jesus fully divine, or somehow less than God? The answer, forged through prayer, argument and no small courage, was clear and emphatic: Jesus Christ is 'God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God … of one Being with the Father'. The words mattered then, and they matter still. The Creed was later expanded at the Council of Constantinople in 381 to take fuller account of the Holy Spirit. This revised text – the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed, to give it its full title – remains the most widely recognised summary of Christian faith in the world today. Recited by Roman Catholics, Orthodox Christians, Anglicans and many Protestant churches alike, it remains a touchstone of what it means to be part of the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church. What's remarkable is that these ancient words have not only endured, but remained instantly recognisable. That's due in part to the continuity of liturgical tradition, but also to something less tangible – a kind of collective memory. We know them not just in our minds, but in our whole being. For many, they inhabit the same world as the worn pages of a prayer book, the scent of wood polish on pews, or the familiar strains of a well-loved hymn. Different versions exist, with small variations of language – but the core text remains the same. For many, the Nicene Creed is inseparable from the melodies to which it has been sung. It has become part of the fabric of our ecclesial and cultural memory – words held in the heart, even if we've not paused to reflect on them for years. And yet – as with all things familiar – there is a risk we stop hearing what we are saying. The words of the Creed can become a well-worn path our minds wander along, rather than a statement that stirs our hearts or arrests our thinking. That's why, in this 1,700th anniversary year, we have an opportunity. A moment to pause, to listen afresh, and to reflect on the extraordinary depth and beauty of what the Creed has to say to us about God. The Nicene Creed is not a list of abstract propositions. It is a living confession of faith, hope and love. It tells the story of a world created in love, broken by sin, and redeemed through the self-giving of God in Christ. It speaks of incarnation, of suffering, of resurrection and of eternal hope. It tells us not only who God is, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, but also who we are: people formed for relationship, for worship, for belonging. That's why this anniversary year presents such a valuable opportunity to revisit the Nicene Creed with fresh attention. One way churches and individuals are doing this is through a new set of reflections published by the Church of England, which take the Creed line by line as a prompt for prayer and theological reflection. Whether used in parish groups or private devotion, they offer a gentle invitation to sit with familiar words and explore their depth anew. In an age where public discourse can often seem thin and fragmented, the Creed offers a depth of meaning that holds firm. It does not reduce faith to sentiment or certainty, nor does it shy away from mystery. Instead, it offers a robust yet gracious framework for belief: a faith shared, inherited, and spoken together. Amid the dissonance of modern life the Creed does not offer easy answers. Instead, it provides a deep and steady orientation, a way of seeing ourselves and our world held within the story of God's enduring faithfulness. The words of the Nicene Creed have been said by emperors and exiles, in grand cathedrals and tiny chapels, in moments of triumph and of suffering. As we mark 1,700 years since they were first agreed, we have the chance not only to remember them – but to recover them. To let these ancient words speak again, and to rediscover the faith that lies at their heart.

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Times

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Times

Fleabag goes to Gaza — a timely satire of war reporters

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