BABY DUCK

Maybe it is wishful thinking. Maybe the child in me never stops hoping for a miracle. Maybe it is magic anyway.

Ducks stay the winter. They didn't always. When winters were still winters that meant it, ducks flew away more South where temperatures seemed friendlier to them.

But winters have become rather wishy-washy. Not fierce enough to frighten the winged ones away. And why would they not stay? That species called humans brings them food a plenty. When
fish , water insects, and plants are scarce, humans provide. Well meant, but not wise.

I live near a creek streaming strong enough to not freeze over. In a white snow landscape, the water looks black. Black and mysterious. Ducks gather there protected by the woodsy grow both sides. Spring must be on their mind. Mating is on their mind. There are exactly as many males as females busily duck talking and swimming around. A peaceful sound. Their feather coats shine. A deep, gleamy shine.

But wait, no duckling could be born yet, could it? What's that cheepy, whistling baby sound. A bird? I search the trees around. No bird in sight. I've heard this sound now each day I pass. I stop to look. Try to find a duck that forgot to grow up. I study their individual faces. See if one sounds different from the others. But although I hear that clear sound repeat itself, I cannot pin point it.

So I dream of other dimensions. Maybe I walk on the dividing line between two. Maybe another world is entering my awareness. It is late spring in that world. It is alive with many birds, and colourful flowers. It is a young world full of babies and life beginning. A little duckling got separated from his mommy. It calls out in a clear voice. I can hear it. It is speed-run-swimming -hardly touching the water- after her.

From my wintry world I entered new life. Did I? Ah, sometimes I don't like mysteries explained. A little later, suddenly, a flock of mourning doves took flight, out of nowhere seemingly. I heard the whistling from their wings.

And I knew, a single one of that sound was my baby duck. Or the sound from a duck that forgot to grow up. Right in this world. No mystery, no miracle, no magic. But wait, that's not right either, is it?

The whistling sound from the wings of a mourning dove, isn't that mysterious and magic in itself? Those pairs of gleaming ducks, preparing for spring and new life, using their duck emotions and wisdom, how can that be common? Me standing here, listening, watching, dreaming, experiencing at different levels... Ah yes, I think, miracles do exist.

LYING POETS

While I was wading knee deep through the Westheight River...

Sounds good, doesn't it? I think so. But it isn't true. It wasn't even ankle deep. More over, Westheight isn't a river. Just a street. Still, it was raining heavily, and all that snow was melting, melting, melting, and Westheight may as well have been a river while I walked there with my seemingly drowned retriever.

We took a turn, and wended our way to a path along the creek. But Creek we did not find. She had been taken over by Thundering River, eager to get where ever he was going, at a speed of one hundred miles an hour. And the ducks loved it. Without using their wings, they were flying down that river, laughing.


And while I was wading knee deep through the Westheight River, dreams of a white Christmas were gurgling down the drain. Like the “Rain in Spain.” It was two days past winter solstice with the promise of every day a little bit more light. What a sunny thought!!!

I was thinking about all these things while wading knee deep through the Westheight River, wondering where that quiet creek had gone. Wondering about truth and non truth.

Is writing about telling the truth? Is the truth poetic? I like language to sound like music. Writing is like weighing words. Strike a balance. Add a word here, take one away there, arrange them. Make them sound like music Make them sing.

I could have started with, “I walked on Westheight Road with my dog. It was raining hard. We sloshed through lots of water...

That would have been the truth. But what is truth? That what I see outwardly, or what I experience inwardly? What sounds nice, and what sounds blah? Who's the judge?

ALL THAT WHITE STUFF

S N O W

S N O W

S N O W

S N O W

Soft snow

Never ending snow

Over the hills and far away snow

Whether we like it or not snow


let it snow let it snow let it snow

let's have snow days no work just play days

let's play play play in the snow

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE


wild thing

BITTER/SWEET

This morning, awake, getting dressed, I tried to think of something. I hit a blank. So I mumbled wistfully the first stanza of the following poem. I actually wrote the the words down, looked at them and continued,

Here's the result,

BITTER SWEET MEMORY

there are blanks in my brain
i don't care to be there
there are blanks in my brain
that ought not occur

they spread too
those blanks in my brain
make me forget
what i ought to remember

frustrating like hell
those blanks in my brain
but what can a mortal do
time being the dictator

we're all mortals
in this universe
our vital signs will fade fade
fade slowly away

if we're blessed to live to
a ripe old age that is
now isn't that a
bitter sweet memory


Wild Thing thinking