Quackers, come. Come, Quackers! quack quack quack. quack quack quack. Quackers, Come! Quackers! quack quack quack. quack quack quack.
The old lady next door with a perplexing number of ancient froofy dogs (one of them blind) greets this Sunday morning by calling without cease for the three ducks across the park. After about two minutes of her litany, they hearken and advance in a linear waddle.
Her husband died last year, and couldn’t make anything but spaghetti and that he made from his mother’s recipe and as he left all the grease and things in (which displeased his wife) he was presently ousted from this singular culinary achievement. Now she sits out back, smoking, divided from my patio by a dead bush and the loneliness which she banishes with froofy dogs and her best friend and her Sunday morning ducks.
Goodbye, quackers, she says as they lumber murmuring off, dismissed by a wayward Frisbee. Quack quack quack quack, goodbye.
Every life is so different: like another world, with its own lakes and trees and caves, and drops of dew trembling on the grass.
(And yet–the same sun rises on each.)