11 March 2011. Sunny morning, like there never was...
The Pato Criollo, friend of man. A Moscovy duck, first seen on the sloping terrain of a Sonoma Coast motel--set of small wooden cabins, from the 1930s, arranged around a big U, wild reeds growing in the middle, hiding a pond. And a Moscovy duck, of course. Place where Leonard and Carol used to stay, years before--they told us once. Owners a young couple from Los Angeles--they left for this northern coast...low light, land running down to the sea.
Big waddle, unexpected shape of head. Red garble. Dictinctive.
Like the town itself. Moscow. Where all roads lead. Last night: map flashes onto flat-screen display--wrapping around the earth, names of provinces and cities, spelled in Cyrillic. Nine time zones, west to east. Brest Litovsk to Kamchatka, and all points in between...
Trans-Siberian...
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