ducks

To get to school, I turn left after the green gate, right at the sewer, and walk past the alley where the babushkas just loaded the hay two-stories high. The alley is full of goats and cows at night, and now the street is strewn with hay, which helps with traction. I turn left again as the street dead-ends into the public bathhouse, and right onto the sidewalk. Right now, the sidewalk really serves as a bridge, since it's the only thing in that triangle-shaped field that is above water right now. There are filthy ducks who live in the house on the corner. Yesterday, I slowed down to watch them walk out onto the ice. Their duck feet either would keep plunging through the thin ice, or make the ice creak as they slipped around. But soon, the ducks had cracked through the ice and the puddles were puddles again, with squares of ice floating around on top. The ducks began to do that crazy thing with their beaks in the water. The ducks'beaks are always clean. Their eyes sparkle. They are happy to be filthy ducks.