On a green pond smooth as glass,
mallards float and pass
the time. I stare
and look away. Splashes
make me turn to see water plumes
collapsing. A pause, a floating
feather: I think of water's plumage
and up spring some ducklings, as
busy as bees in the water-lilies.
A lardy male waddles by
on lobstrous feet, evoking
with his draconian head
a Viking long boat.
A duckling ducks
submerges and emerges
like a broadside
at the adult's broad side
and nippily snatches a fly
from the bottom of the sky.
Flustered, the adult flaps
his wings, flinging off
oddly fluttering splodges. Weary of malarkey,
he fans out his butt like a pack of cards
and onto a flagstone flops. Wary of malady,
he gingerly stretches out
his white-collared neck
for soggy croutons floating
on this duck-poo soup. He wants
that sumptuous bread but he fears
being presumptuous. He does not want
to end up dead. But he cannot die.
He is a picture. I have immortalized
and immobilized him.
Unhinging winds fringe maroon-fingered moon,
like a waiter with a supernatural soup-spoon;
a crater of rubble like a burst bubble serving
as a seat of tranquillity for a duck quacking up
a soporific melody of sounds pacific:
Talk about a duck
floating on a lake,
looking like a wooden decoy does;
talk about a drake
ducking wooden ducks,
making all the ducklings he can make.