It’s true that somewhere Duck lives her life casually on the water: maybe eating a few bugs and roots, maybe a few boys throw sticks at her; maybe she’s small enough to rise into the air over the pond and buildings.
Most days the worry and weight of the world pulls me down. It’s then that I think about Duck, how she faces her day with grace and weightlessness, how no matter what happens she claps her bill and makes a way.
How everything in the world is a part of everything else. How I am the green water, calm, happy. I am Duck eating this tear of bread from my hand.
