Now we see why Helmet was gone of late,
And it comes with quite a revelation:
Helmet is a girl! Had she gone to mate?
She has her nest in the same location
As Mom did, at the laundry room between
The AC unit and wall adjacent.
It's perfect, shortly before this we'd seen
Her reappear amongst this family
Who hatched right there on that very same scene.
Many little soon-to-be progeny
Beneath her downy bosom incubate,
And we pray she's rewarded handsomely.
The second generation to propagate
Since we began to keep tabs on our friends
Is upon us; it's a difficult wait.
It's still months until brooding season ends.
I pray they will be kept safe from the drakes,
Or if birds-of-prey-disguised death descends.
Although anxiety for these ducks makes
Up quite a chunk of my expectant thoughts,
To see them flourish my waiting heart aches.
Little puffs of down all around her dot
Her nest where we counted somewhere around
Eleven eggs within this most blessed spot!
Who can wait to hear that heartwarming sound—
Ducklings cheeping in perfect innocence
As they swarm and skitter across the ground?
This season continues with cryptic hints,
The swapping days of warm and cold belie
Their secret day of hatching's imminence.
Newborn mallards have hatched somewhere nearby,
Perhaps on this first day of the new year.
Soon Helmet's chicks will poke out and arrive.
Though nothing more of the future is clear,
I dream of them joining us in growth here.
Tag: wildlife
After the Loss of Miracle the Duckling
The sun descends before a mere
Mortal could ever fathom when,
And that's what fills humans with fear.
Black, indelible ink; the pen
Proscribes loved and unloved while I
Feel the true fear of change again.
These nearly-limitless things vie,
Each one of them so small at birth;
Yet some it sees fit to deny.
Lives inestimable in worth,
Newly born; why do some survive
While others get but days on Earth?
Why is it while they were alive
The bloody blade reaped thereupon
And nothing done could help them thrive?
I hear the doleful singing swan
Echo my thoughts. I must praise.
Even after, new young will spawn.
There will be more ducklings to raise;
Even those we've lost will be kept,
Remembered my remaining days.
And beyond when my windows wept,
They have their niche that they've occupied;
I'm a moment to intercept.
In all my childish, misty-eyed
Attachment I forfeit most sense,
For this is how they've multiplied.
Citification built the fence
Which separates and shelters me.
Life becomes unreal and intense.
Competition is anomie
To one with precious much to lose;
Life and fear in synonymy.
Such is the case for one who views
Constant struggle through rationale
And the tragedy it imbues,
But how could an animal scowl
At the fate of life, its one gift?
They don't see things as fair or foul.
They only know the life they lift
From the seed of their forebears' soil
And the changes of seasons' shift.
They're not averse to earthly toil,
Their being, both parcel and part
Of their place in this mortal coil.
As such there's never loss of heart
For them when tragedy befalls
Their life, the ever-forward dart.
An indomitable will calls
Their spirits onward with elan
Uncomprehending of our galls.
These ducks have but a single plan,
Which is to be what they will be
And to nurture their little clan;
To follow their ancestral tree
With peace wild and docile at once,
My darling ducks, this family.
So even when misfortune hunts,
I trust these ducks will persevere
Through both dreary and merry months.
They could be my teachers of cheer,
Wary for their safety and yet
Unknowing existential fear.
They simply take what they can get.
They remain happy and content,
Though looking out for any threat.
They're unafraid how much is spent,
It's all for life and it's all fair.
That's how nature builds its ascent.
A million generations' wear
Strengthens the very DNA
Which brings all creatures up to bear.
Very little controls the sway
Of fate. But, as their parents had,
They grow confident with each day.
It's like their souls are armor-clad,
Uncrippled by softhearted pain
That never fails to drive me mad.
Nature is indifferent to strain.
Prepared for total loss, it gains.
Ducks on the Bridge
The evening breezes tossed our hair about
As we approached the wooden bridge's gate.
On the handrails four of our friends were couched,
Enjoying an eminent perch out late.
But when we sidled up to them to scout,
They shifted around. Though we hoped they'd wait,
George decided he would fly; and his flaps
Peppered his adjacent brothers with slaps.
Percy and Norm were standing beside him
As he opened his wings, readying flight.
They seemed bewildered, though not quite frightened;
I saw Norm raise his crest, though it was slight.
They sat with Marble after abiding
Their brother's barrage of blows feather-light.
At last these three lay down in settled ease;
We left them to sleep with the midnight breeze.
Percy and George
Oh Percy and George, you don't know how much
I want to pet you beautiful creatures,
But both of you ducks are beyond my touch.
If those downy white breasts I should reach for,
I know you boys would avoid me, for such
Are wild animals; yet you are teachers:
It's when I calm myself, when I sit still,
You darlings are wont to join me and chill.
Stork and Spoonbill
The stork and roseate spoonbill must be friends.
There's no way around the display we saw.
As the tall stork stooped to the rippling bends
In a three-point stance with its walking jaw,
The spoonbill came swooping; probing it draws
Like a metal detector its flat beak
Back and forth through the water as it trawls
Behind the wood stork's singular technique.
They carry along this way for a streak
Before they happen on the bank of sand.
Together they create a most unique
Sight: the spoonbill prancing while the stork stands.
Then they both settle, basking in the light,
These two wading birds, one pink and one white.
Norm the Duck
Norman is such a friendly guy,
He seems so eager when we appear.
He'll stretch his neck like a giraffe,
Starting to chuckle with Cory and I,
His feathers wagging in the rear;
Cory says his spirit's half-
Puppy how he reacts when he hears
His name: his eyes squinching with glee,
Tipping his head (on our behalf?)
Our hearts swoon with affection when sweet
Norm laughs.
The Limpkin
The limpkin resembles a toppled vase,
Dappled with white spots on its wings
And woody down; and flowing out
Like a rush of water, its neck,
Brilliantly flecked with flashing white,
Ends in its beautiful beak that curves
Very slightly, harpoonlike, probing
Through shallow waters, silt, and clay
For submerged mollusks to pick apart.
Its legs are fully half its height:
Walking sticks deliberate
In planting their quadrupod toes.
The limpkin was endangered once,
Hunted for its plumage's art.
Capricious supply and demand,
The vilest trait of humankind,
Came close to etching its demise;
But thanks is due to providence
Whose power turns curses around.
When the invasive apple snail
Took Florida, the limpkin found
An ecosystem it could thrive
In again, pulling prodigious
Amounts of shells from the freshwater
Marshes and creeks; if not for that,
I may have never had the chance
To see the little limpkin fly
Over the ripples of the pond,
Gliding down to the verdant banks
To trod with twiggy little legs
At the shoreline; where dragonflies,
Blue and pink, black and red,
Glimmering gold and shining jade,
Flit across the surface and mate,
Coupling in flight and performing
Their strange dance on the water's edge.
Muscovy Ducks
Muscovy ducks
Can be big and imposing,
But truly they're gentle birds.
Their big carbuncular
Faces belie
Their golden eyes that sweetly gaze.
Splintering off in several groups,
Two or three buddies swim,
Doing their thing, then recongregate.
Huffing and hissing,
Waggling their tails,
They're actually happy to see friends.
Sometimes they tussle
In tiny disputes for dominance,
But I've never seen it get bloody.
At night they gather together, sleeping
In bushes, trees, or each other's
Warmth—all entirely precious.
Pond Scene
Perching upon a branch
The great gray heron waits.
Water scurrying by
With schools of tiny fish
Who don't know it's above.
Flashes flutter beneath;
Silver silhouettes swim
Alongside little domes
That breach the surface line,
Raising curious heads
With colorful streaked sides—
Pond sliders peeking out.
Across the pond I see
A white party of birds.
In this wading group, one,
Skinny and statuesque,
Stands above all the rest.
A great white egret waits
As tiny ibises
Pick and poke through the grass;
And two diminutive
Snowy egrets play,
The one chasing his mate
Until she takes to flight,
Landing a couple feet
Away. He flies in suit,
Tracing upon the blue
His little yellow pair
Of banana peel feet.
Overhead rose a cry
Like raspy guiro scrapes;
A long shadow appeared:
A great grey heron flies,
Attracting the branch-sat
One, engaging their wings
Toward the high treetops.
They circle in a pair
Once and a second time,
Then a third circuit make
Before they disappear
Within the woody heights.
A place for my poems 