Georgie throws his head back and giggles like only a young child can. It's that infectious kind of laugh that lights up adults – like an echo of the children they once were. On the surface of the pond there is a duck, white with the most orange bill you ever saw, dipping his head in the water and shaking it. The drops fly outward, landing in the almost ripple-free water to make tiny waves that move outward in ever growing circles. Georgie claps before digging his hands into the bread crumb bag and throwing it as far as he can, which isn't very. The duck quacks and swims in, his wake stretching behind in a classic v-shape. It waddles out following the trail and now Nila has to restrain the pre-schooler as he dives forward to greet it. The duck raises his head, moving it side to side, deciding if the treat is worth the danger. Nila drags him back a few paces and the duck goes back to the bread, eating it in the same way Georgie approaches spaghetti.
From the air alights a duck. Cory almost jumps. Ducks and beetles – the two things you forget can fly. It lands with a splash making a long wake behind it, the ripples spreading out like those behind a speed boat, meeting the banks before rebounding and fading. It's a mallard, its green head iridescent in the light, eyes like black beads. Suddenly he wishes he had a pocket full of bread so he could feed it. For a moment he's lost in a transitory evocation of his childhood. Saturday mornings – a walk to the park with the stale bread mother had saved all week.
The duck moves through the water like it's got some kind of outboard motor. It hasn't though. Underneath the surface its legs are working hard to move it along at that speed. The effort never shows on that ducky face, but then ducks have the emotional range of a wet hanky. Still though, it draws my attention, a welcome distraction after a busy day.