In an odd little polygon of a park I pass on my way to work from the bus stop, sits an odd little polygon of a pond. This morning I saw, floating placidly, paddling lazily back and forth, mallard duck husbands and their wives, and two geese. The contented company were sipping their morning coffee, reading the paper and chatting together about the day’s prospects.
The park is unremarkable. Few trees grace its narrow confines nor is there much lawn. The most notable item on that small triangular block is a very large, very noble statue of Simon Bolivar, the great 19th century liberator of much of Latin America, seated hero-like on a great steed, set on a pedestal on a terrace of stone. Besides that, its just a few scrubby trees, some grass, and an odd, unattractive little polygon of a pond with some water birds.
I considered writing a story about those ducks and geese. I still might. Remarkable, those poultry, swimming calmly around or just sitting and basking in the early morning sunlight. The oblivious birds didn’t care a whit for the buildings and people and cars and buses around them. The scene might have been plucked from some isolated pond in the middle of the wilderness somewhere, and plopped down in the middle of this bustling city, this nexus of world power and influence. The odd polygon, next to old General Bolivar, sits just blocks from the office where the Leader of the Free World himself sits, but neither that fact nor the lesser but still highly significant government workers (ahem) walking by made a bit of difference to the ducks.
All that mattered was the crisp morning, a cool damp still in the air from yesterday’s rain, and the peace of that moment.
As if nothing but the moment mattered
