Dead duck in the garden, behind the bush, outside the patio room window. Sad. Yellow/orange feet and bill, blue stripe along the wing, surprisingly light. No visible marks. Is it dead? Or is it slowed down, the knot of its consciously moving at one millionth time, distributing into the soup of the universe.

My neck itches, and just now, I scratched it, and picked up, under my fingernail, a small shiny square of paper, 4 mm on the side, with black numbers printed on it: 20.

What do these things mean? A duck's dreams. My finger, the sticker: a synapse. And now I'm thinking about it, part of the loop. Engaged, embedded.