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.