Twenty Ducks

12/20/22

Twenty ducks march.
Following suit, they strut
past dot-painted trespassers
who feed upon their shell.

They kneel as kernels
tip-top over their knuckles
to quench a thirst
they struggle
to connect —

“How cute!” They comment.
“Look how they move!”

A straight line, a
narrow shoot — to hell —
a pitter-patter attempt
to escape a fate
pre-determined to
create a destination.

Twenty ducks may order
their pack the best,
but never control
so out-wide of them,
leaving nothing but
yellow splotches and
broken eggs, left
alone for the “humans”
to take, plan, and
procreate — control,
may they try —

but never will they
follow suit in line
except to hell,
after they die.