The ducks are doing what they naturally do as ducks. Of course we have choice, which separates us from the ducks. And God gave us that choice, and of course we blow it regularly. And God still loves us and allows us to begin again, even when we have messed it up royally.
Ah... now the lady out back is in turquoise. It must be spring.
The morning blue sky,
The three warblers in the leafless tree
They will continue north
they must have had breakfast
Before I got here, but no
No: here they are
They show the energy, the intensity of spring
In our family we call it the spring raping of the ducks
More than intensity there is violence here
Male on female violence,
No Disneyland animals, these.
If the ducks are mine it seems important
To see all of the ducks.
I admit I would rather pretend
They just chase one another
Or it*s a massive game
of hide and seek;
Or this is just a general spring poem
Of blue and greening
And the false blue indigo with its other-worldly shoots
The ducks are mine
All of the ducks are mine
Today they do not play games.
Today is survival;
I strain to see the beauty