The ducks are of two minds. I’m a bother, but I am something to yell at. Some jump to the ice. At dusk, the ducks might as well be ice. Winter pastels fade into brilliant blues and reds that spread from the horizon across the pond, the field, the day.
“Those ducks . . . they don’t know what ice is,” a jogger calls to me from up on the trail.
I don’t know how to answer. “Ducks?” I say.
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