The Duck

it is late

in the year

the time when

the wind gathers

gray clouds and cold air

an old hermit from the mountains

stands with a wobbly cane

at a carved temple door and speaks

to the morning air through the blue haze

of a smoldering smudge of sage

-better to be woke

than half asleep

clinging to a dream

that fades to white

as if to mark the season

the geese of each great state

move one state south for winter

the dabbling drake looks

to the sky to see what lies at the horizon

his home is the wet glades that stretch

forever into one long swamp

with no skill to dive

beneath the water

to be nourished

by what grows deep

he opens his orange beak

and with his raspy voice

quacks up