A park with a few scrub trees and a trickling brook was located across the street from one of the clap-trap rentals we called home during our days in Atlanta. To call the area a park was a stretch. When builders rushed to put up tiny houses built from old army barracks, the small ravine was too costly to fill in, so what better name than a “park.”
One morning a few domestic ducks paddled around in the stream. How they arrived, nobody knew.