Ducks: An Epilogue
Only a poet would write about ducks,
see them for their duck-ness, feathers on the water,
little boats with blue-green flags sailing off,
or coming on to shore with a waddle or a limp.
I sat on my beach, a fine day in May.
I could not write, or rather would not, given all
the drivel that I knew would claim my hand.
Then came the ducks, who stood and stared at me
as still as ancient stone. Move I said, silently of course,
not wanting to disturb their sacred aura.
Move. Come to me. If you do you are most
certainly ambassadors of God.
They budged neither feather nor an inch
no matter how intensely I returned their gaze.
It then became clear, they had come to test my faith.
I walked back home more humble than I'd been
in a long time. Before I went inside,
I looked back to see, like four vagrant thoughts,
the ducks had followed me.
It's a funny life, you know.
And stranger when you think of what will move us.