I had fifteen, or so, minutes to myself today. I spent them with a Winston and moment. While I was outside the student union, I had the chance to crouch and reflect on many things, but a duck and drake were what filled most of my time. There is a certain perfection to be found in ducks. Any animal form, for that matter, but it was ducks today, tomorrow it could be an albino spider for all I know. Today, though, those fifteen minutes were spent admiring the flow and curve of a mallard and its mate as they stood breast deep in a shallow stream, October pregnant with late season rain. The time and selection, the perfection of design. At times, I am embarrassed by the moments that I steal away from the day to simply observe. Momentarily. That passes, and I am left grateful for the privelege. The duck: clownly colored, perfectly shaped, supremely designed. Were we all to find ourselves reshaped, remolded, reaquainted with ourselves, could we compete with the simplicity and purity of the simple waterfowl? Klowns, shamans and the like, borrowed from the beasts an admiration for the gods.