ducks
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The endless pages of my sketchbook are filled with ducks
Big ducks
Small ducks
White ducks
Purple ducks
And eerily incomplete ducks
Rodney’s cigar smoldered ashy red
As a flash of brown fur leaped up by his side.
My shotgun smelled of smoke, and oil, and lead.
I shot the mallard drake, clean in the head.
There once was an egg left all alone,
whose shell was slightly a different tone.
Despite it’s color,
a duck became its mother.
Weeks fluttered by until one day,
babies came out to play.
One thing I geek, that gives me eagerly a spark,
Is when I get to peek, and view the scenery at the Park.
There are flowers of all colors--some open, some buds.
Plump fishes leaping out of the water, returning with a thud.
Holden is the catcher in my rye,
but who ever caught him?
Salinger, I praise him often
The Catcher in the Rye is the one book I need
It kept me up to speed
on the 50's
The fountain with a pond,
Sheds light in the dawn
As two little ducklings swam
Gliding through the water to land.
The male duck stretched and cawed
The female duck tucked and cleaned
Sniffles and Nibble wander a far
Sifting through mud
Eyes alert, gentle peeps exchanged
Wary are their minds
Sniffle and Nibble waddle on
As they waddle around and chant at strangers, eating bread Crumbs and soggy wafers.
chartering and swimming all together, when trouble comes they all scatter.
