This is an old poem that somehow recently seemed immediate.
It’s early spring and rains
leave miniature ponds
not deep but attractive to
Drake and Mallard pairs
moving into the neighborhood
settling quacking down.
Not sensing transience
in their comfortable puddles
they get around swimmingly
bottom feeding on the roughage
shoots and grubs appearing
by springtime magic in the water.
I watch them frolic and enjoy
abundance and abode
until the welcome sun and gentle wind
slowly pick their puddles up
blowing them east to be a morning fog
out on further fields
Their fragile duck economy
collapses. They are forced to move
no matter that they love the neighborhood.
Familiar friends, acquaintances,
all are left behind as they flutter off
to start anew, beget their ducklings
on a better choice of real estate.