50 shades of beige dismality,
Grey branches the only counterweight to the sky
For miles of wondering how and why ...
Then the buzz of flies, a lift of ducks,
A moss-ridden pool, thick and still,
Nestled in the dessicated reeds
Where mallards skate in V's,
Communing with the larvae in their beaks.
In cotton fluff I inquire of the muck
Slopped to the chartreuse oasis side
And three ducks, startled, raise their wings and fly
Just close enough to be too far away.
The pond shines white as tails swim off
Clucking their strange, ineluctable tongue.
Then: a splash of goldenrod. I look up: a broken-heart cloud.
