My daughter calls two ducks besides the April-fat river Mrs. and Mr. Duck — Out For an Evening Swim.
A brown female the hue of last year’s fallen leaves. The male’s garish, jade head reminds me of the unmistakable hue of Japanese beetles.
Nothing more — nothing earth-shattering — merely those two ducks easing into the muddy river, the frothy current quickly ferrying them around a bend and beyond our sight.
And yet I keep thinking back to that duck couple, a poem in motion, in no need at all of my fond wishes or thoughts.
Don’t say my hut has nothing to offer:
come and I will share with you
the cool breeze that fills my windows.