Ducks

 

He was just the old man sitting in the park.

Every day, he’d walk from his little house to the little park and find his favorite bench in the shade. The one that faced the pond with the ducks in it.

He’d read that bread was bad for ducks and felt bad about all the years he’d fed them bread. He hoped that none of them had died because of his misplaced kindness.

So now, he fed them frozen mixed vegetables, which they liked well enough, but not as much as they’d liked the bread.

He felt the same way.