Leaning toward the stand of tasty hostas
the ducks are lined up, necks stretched,
black beetle eyes about to fly
from the tops of their heads,
bills blowing like vuvuzelas.
Out from under the awning of leaves
I hear a lone chicken braaaah,
in a tone of profound tolerance:
There is nothing for you here,But they stand their ground
in a row, as they say, like ducks –-
Indian Runners, Rouens, and Pekins --
waiting like after-game rabble at a bar,
while the black hen, Rose, turns her back
as a bar maid would, plucking leaves
with the manicured nails of her beak.
She is not clearing out
So, the drakes pivot from the bar,
their appetites deflected
to what is at hand, and begin their rite,
pinching the necks of the female ducks
with their brassy bills,
then climbing on for a rumba.
What else can they do?
The maple’s shadow rolls over,
having seen it all before.
From near the pond, the wind hums
the poplar leaves, as through a bamboo flute --
a low and deeply knowing accompaniment
to the fickleness of the natural order.
~ Ruth M.
NOTE: For anyone whose head was under a hosta and doesn't know what vuvuzelas are, like me until much later than most people apparently, they are those dreadful horns that have nearly driven the world crazy, especially the players, in the World Cup.
This poem is part of the new One Stop Poetry One Shot Wednesday poem sharing project, where Brian Miller of Way Station One is hosting today, which I heard about from Lorenzo at The Alchemist's Pillow, who also helped a great deal workshopping this poem. (Sorry, Lorenzo, I am very grateful for to you, but I have to root for the Netherlands against Spain Sunday, to support my sister who lives there. Otherwise, I'd vuvuzela for Spain (can it be a verb?) - and thanks for telling me what those "World Cup horns" were called.)