Feeding ducks at the pond, from a sack full
Of bread crusts, the birds which swim near,
Are the tame ones, the other, wild travelers
Stay further away, perhaps out of fear...
And my daughter ignores the feathered
Multitude, insisting, instead, on giving
Bread to a lone, misplaced and weathered
Bird, forced away to the edge by the flock,
It comes ashore, unafraid, takes bread
From her hand, it does not fuss or balk
Or run away, the strange ugly duck instead
Looks at us, with a seemingly human eye,
"How did I end-up here, and why?"
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