Ducking Jogging

Raining.

Running.

Perfect weather for ducks.

Rounding the bend, the webmaster charges at me a white slice on his bill.

Chased by a phalanx of feathers, a puddled pack, quack attack.

“Give us our daily window bread”

Using his loaf he waddles supreme but the brace barrage bites, the pecking order is toast: confetti crumbs fly down.

When winging it one gets in a flap, fluttered, crash lands.

I’m stopped.

Sweat still runs quickly off my back.

Fall and rise rumps process, progress to the next round.

Time still runs quickly off my back.

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