“He’s been there three days now,” said the woman at my elbow.
The tiny black-striped duckling is sprawled out on the oversized lilypad,
apparently asleep. “His mother comes by a couple of times a day,
tries to get him to come into the water, but he just won’t leave.”
She sighs, takes a hefty drag of her cigarette
offers me one with a look as if daring me to point out the No Smoking sign nearby.
Hearing our voices, the little duck pushes himself to his feet,
stretches his tiny, useless wings and opens his tiny black beak in a great yawn
hops around for a few moments, snapping after the gnats congregating
on the curled lip of the gigantic Asiatic lilypad.
After a few minutes, he settles back into his spot in the exact center of the pad,
fluffs up the soft down that covers him in lieu of feathers
watches us warily as the woman and I begin, almost spontaneously
to try to coax him over to us.
“If I had some popcorn or crackers, I bet he’d come over,” says the woman
finishing up her cigarette with one last, long drag. She smashes it to the ground,
then carefully picks it up and tucks it into her pocket,
rubbing at the streak of ash remaining on the concrete
with the end of her shoe.
About:
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and The Muse Writers Center in Virginia.
