It's early spring and rains
leave miniature ponds
not deep but attractive to
a Drake and Mallard pair
moving into the neighborhood
settling quacking down.
Not sensing transience
in their comfortable puddle
they get on swimmingly
bottom feeding on the roughage
shoots and grubs appearing
by springtime magic in the water.
I watch them frolic and enjoy
abundance and abode
until the welcome sun and gentle wind
slowly picks their puddle up
blowing it east to be a morning fog
out on further fields
Their fragile duck economy
collapses. They are forced to move
no matter if they love the neighborhood.
Familiar friends, acquaintances,
all are left behind as they flutter off
to start anew, beget their ducklings
upon a better choice of real estate.
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This was written a few years ago for the season described. I came across it today and it seemed somehow to resonate. Like all great poetry it is simple but very deep. Ha!