Those ugly hucksters better be on their way now—for the duckster is back and she feeds never the swindling swans with her bread baskets.
All we need to do is each point our bills skyward—towards our medium coelis—and let the heavenly-leavenly, toasted treats fall into quacking quarters.
She is surely our brightest star—shooting towards our lakely ecliptic mini-morsels that would otherwise remain unrealized wishes for waving waterfowl.
Greek to our paddling is how stars and snacks and ess-birds [more like *less*-birds] navigate, orbit, circle, and connect, but if the exode has tums pleasantly sated rather than enduring explode, we will take a bow—er, dip—of thanks. ; )