Bird Muse #3:  The Ducks

Frannie Z

 

Every year I lived in Madison,

I would see a mom duck

and ducklings

trailing along some road

in spring.

But it was never the same road.

 

All the drivers stopped.

Or, to put it more personally,

each driver found it within

herself or himself

to push the brakes

and be delayed

for as long as it took

the ducks to paddle

safely across or behind.

 

The mom duck of course

waddled authoritatively,

as if to say, “You see

what I have to guard.

Grant me care.”

 

But sometimes

the ducklings closest

to the front

would start to rock on each foot

as they walked,

imitating the mom,

forecasting their entrance

into approved duckdom.

 

One spring

it rained and rained and rained.

The four lakes and Yahara river swelled,

then flooded.

The ducks bobbled on paths

they had never seen or taken before.

They seemed larger,

a bit angrier,

flushed yet determined.

They invaded, fuddled around

places people usually walked.

It was as if their new freedom,

crafted by water,

propelled them into strength.

 

I left the year after.