Like always, these ducks were marching past a pond. Their feet flapped, muddling. One stopped in front of me, flapped its wings, and said:


Softly. I was sitting down looking at them, with some friends. The spectacle of a duck saying such a thing instead of its usual quack was extraordinary. So I thought I had to say something smart about it. I struggled with my brain for a while and finally muttered:

Ducks. In … a … pond.

Nothing too smart. I woke up.

This is Daniel Wolfson’s dream, told to me.