The Volvo stops a few feet shy
of the crosswalk, the stop line,
the cracked door in the pavement.

Perpendicular to this drive, from the lawn
of the still-dark People's Bank, the ducks
head off to the marsh.

A young female stretches. She yawns, practically
pajama-clad in the entirety of her waking.

Her sister sits on all the good grass,
and she will not be moved.

A nip from somebody's mother
just as the light turns green,
and the brown birds pack up their night.

photograph by John Hanam


Mr. Apron said...

It's the specificity of your work that makes it so enjoyable.

A. Truscott said...

I once saw a male duck standing around mourning the death of his mate. It was the saddest thing. Sorry to be depressing. Ducks are great. I like your poem.

Kate Horowitz said...


That is sad. But hey, maybe he moved on and joined community theatre and had an active later life or something. I don't know.

When I was in college I knew this duck named Ernie and his coloring made him look exactly like he was wearing a sweater-vest and a beanie. He was an all-right guy.

Adam Wishneusky said...

adorable. like the author

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