Archive
09/21/10 - (1)
The Last Ducks
Though the sun rose at 6:51, It's just now breaking from under its hazy-gray cloud cover, Nearly two hours later.
I record, in my notebook, this seemingly irrelevant detail, Solely for the satisfaction it gives my sensibility, Since, by doing so, it implicates me, in the day,
Makes me focus on at least one piece of reality's mosaic, Which weaves me into its design, Whenever I spend time alone, in this pine-and-birch clime,
Getting acclimated to the intricate simplicities nature nurtures, Watching over her flock of animals and plants, Which endure the seasons as best they can.
Just now, gazing lakeward, out the kitchen windows, I catch sight of waterfowl, for the first time in five days — A solitary pair of mallards diving, feeding on vegetation —
And marvel at the harmony of their bodies, beaks, feet, Realizing that what I see is nothing less than survival itself, In the necessary urgencies of two mere ducks,
Who surely sense that they're paddling, desperately, At the very edges, margins, extremities of death And must soon leave this rapidly cooling habitat or freeze.
And though the mallards have now disappeared from my vision, They float, yet, across my sense of uncertainty, Away from Lake Nebagamon, where they no longer belong.
09/21/10 - (1)
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