A duck sat by a river looking at its reflection Wondering, where will I go? What do I do? When I die one day will anyone remember me? Will I catch a bite tomorrow? Will the nice ladies from down the block come in their bright sundresses and feed me stale bread crumbs while gossiping about other women? Why am I a mallard? Why can't I have been a beautiful swan, elegant and to be envied, instead? Why must I make such hoarse, pathetic sounds? Quack! Quack! Quack! Putting aside all that, why can't I have been born a male duck instead? With their striking green plumage, the purple glitter on their wings, and their mustard yellow beaks? Why must I be a little brown critter? I look like a sad mop! Where will I be five years from now? Ten? Will I have ducklings, or will I be long digested in a fox's stomach by then? What rivers will I swim in, and which ones will I never have the chance to visit? On what day will I swim my final swim? So many things going through the