68 @ The Duck Pond

So we had an hour to kill and many stale loaves of bread to use. Off to the duck pond we were bound.

Honks, quacks, knacks, squirts, squeaks, cooing and whistles followed.

Watching a hundred or so ducks flock to the girl—her first glimpse of power over other beings.

Sound of the major traffic arteries for the city in the background. Muted by the fall of water from the duck bath and aeration fountains.

Man-made bird bath emulating a stream, burbles and all.

Water, so precious, so rare, so wasted.

The ducks mash and jostle, no different from anyone else in a crowd, trying desperately to get what they want.

The white noise from the fountain blocks out the annoying children, and washes over. The traffic muted, distilled to deep vibration.

The crisp rustle of the bag as she feed the birds. The crunch of bread underfoot

A turtle sunning on a rock, strange. Wild-life trying to emulate nature.

The girl, skipping across the arched bridge.

The buzzing of the alarm, the day moves on.

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