Jeschonek I wish that the man who feeds us every day were a duck like I am. Other men and women give off a reddish light like fire or a bluish light like ice, but the man who feeds us gives off a golden glow like the morning sun. Other men and women are hard as rock inside, but the man who feeds us is as tender as river mud. We meet him every weekday morning in the grassy park beside the Crown American Building, the one with the giant pillars like stone tree trunks. We hear the ring of keys jangling on his belt loop, and we run to him from whatever puddle we are sipping or cigarette butt we are pecking at. He is tall and skinny as a blade of marsh grass. The sandy-colored hair on his head is as thin and wispy as a water skimmer’s legs. Sunlight glints from his glasses, so I cannot always see his eyes, but when I do, they are huge and dewy as the caps of forest mushrooms at dawn. He takes his time when he feeds us, sitting on a bench in the park, dropping crumbs of bread from a plastic bag.
