2004-10-14 - 6:49 p.m.
Five Mallards
The past few times
We’ve walked along the road above the pond
They haven’t flown; instead,
They seem to have become used to our routine
And have settled into one of their own, and now merely swim
To the middle when we pass.
Still, they get agitated. I hear the concern, or maybe it’s annoyance,
Voiced in the gargled quacks of the drakes as they paddle
In place while the hens ease away. Chance points; Beau paces
Along the fiery sumac, plunges in, jumps out,
But his antics change nothing.
The ducks are used to us now.
Coming up the drive, I look across the field
That abuts the valley. Brown goldenrod
Shares the wild acres with milkweed
Spilling seed like unpicked bolls of cotton.
Soon enough it will snow; the pond will freeze over.
I look out the window and watch the mallards
And wonder what will become of them then.
