The duck who commutes

At seven each morning a duck named Bun enters the canal by the bridge, paddles precisely nothing — the current does the work — and disembarks at the bathhouse drain with the unhurried air of a season-ticket holder. The English, I should say, would adore her. Nobody has ever queued more beautifully than a duck declining to hurry.

Yuki-san has watched this commute for years. This week the Matji finally follow, riding an upturned washing bowl like a ferry, and discover the destination: the warm corner where the bathhouse water meets the canal. The best seat in the neighbourhood, and Bun found it first.

A guest arrangement is reached. The bowl-ferry is granted mooring rights. Yutju and the duck float side by side in the warm corner, radiating an identical philosophy.

Yuki-san, who already pays her towel-folders in warm milk, extends the payroll: one crust each morning, left on the drain cover. Bun accepts it as no more than her due — which, everyone agrees, it is.