Patrolling the ripple zen flow
Until the mallards are almost as distressed
As the geese, who anxiously sway
To another half-imagined dream,
Animated always by a black bile,
Ever eager to lower an elongated beak
Against the easiest trajectory. But most often
The attack is against their own kind,
Tongue extended at the rope end of the neck,
Wings spread like a proclamation from the king,
To rage away something that can’t be seen,
So deep is the animosity. They even shake
As they pick fleas, like they're not being treated
In the way their position demands, they,
The interlopers, wholly inappropriate
To this climate, this flap of land. They populate
The hillsides, crouching, striding, flying
With the same restless critical eye
That finds the place lacking. Whatever comes
Out of their sporadic actions is hard to tell.
There's some satisfaction with the way they've held
Themselves against all comers, as if by scoffing alone
The corrupted mud could enter heaven.
