May 11th. It was a rainy morning, and all seemed peaceful.
Only footsteps and bike tracks in the sand betrayed that others had passed.
My one companion on the river was, much like me, quietly enjoying the early hour.
Suddenly there was a great flapping. Big black wings zoomed in from behind, aiming straight for the duck perched peacefully on his rock.
In the precise line of an arrow that narrowly skins its target, he sped in at a low angle just missing taking the head off of my little friend, who, in great face, did not even duck. Two big black wings crashed down in a skidding halt just centimeters in front of the past-life yogi,
who, obviously above quarreling over sticks and stones, swam away in an admirable show of serene nonchalance.
Minutes after claiming his perch, the black-winged king flapped off in great commotion to his usual stone throne just nearby.