At evening watches the duck
slow feeding the waterline.
Praises the duck. Such a fine
white miracle breasting the mayfly.
Green of her tail feathers,
space of her neck doubled in water
paddles off with my mind.
Ducks I have known.
Old duck mates of mine
inspecting the meeting of air and liquid.
Make no mistake, duck.
I’d like to eat you well cooked
one bell-battered Sunday in April.
And I’d wear your gorgeous feathers in my hat,
make a soup of the bones
and give your leftovers to the cat.