This duck, this yellow duck lost on a river in far far away China, captivated me as a child.
Everything about his world was alien to my eyes: a houseboat, ducks nothing like the ones that swam in our dam, a vast vast river that people made their home, the sky a much dimmer softer one than ours.
Off the boat Ping’s family and all the other ducks would waddle each day to feed on the riverbank, counted out by the owner. Back home they would come each evening, up the gangplank. Last one home feels the stick.
