Eight White Ducks

Closely she watched your struggle.

Zooming in on your intense effort, she viewed
how you waddled uncomfortably over rising rough edges
separating you from wind-whipped waters to frozen parts.

She smiled to see your new moves–slip, slide, slip, slide–on ice to glide.
You waddled like beginning toddlers; uneasily you shifted with ice stunning you.
There was no food you had hoped for from her hands which embraced
all they could manage–a shaking camera.

You didn’t get food then, but you did get to spend a little time with that
grinning, chatty photographer woman
going absolutely wild about being so cold
and about your shimmering moves
with white and orange reflections
glowing like a twilight sky in your icy lake.

Closely she watched your struggle.

One comment

  1. Ok, Ms. Photographer,

    Next time take a bag of corn, or that lovely apparition
    of feathers and feet/feat, just might call the Duck, Duck Union
    and demand remuneration for being so engaging.

    The poem and the photograph are super! I love the way ducks
    tilt their heads as if evaluating every situation…or maybe just

    As always, Jan, your work puts a smile on the lips and a song
    in the heart.

    Thank you!


    Liked by 1 person

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