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.
Sweat still runs quickly off my back.
Fall and rise rumps process, progress to the next round.
Time still runs quickly off my back.