When you see ducks, you think of mites. Disease. The one, brief girl who let all her birds fly around her apartment loose. Smears of shit even on the bed. You have rarely watched them, domesticated, play in kiddie pools, and splash in the garden hose. You have never noticed the flirty head bob. The way they dance. You have never seen a goose stretch her leg back back back and balance as though she were in warrior pose. You did not expect the sun to burn you, and the ducks to soothe you. You did not reckon on peace.
You have been thinking about power. About the struggle it took for you to know yours. You have been thinking that you have nothing to prove. And you are lucky. And this is what comes to you, in the duck-mown grass, with the tiny Muscovy darting around your shoes, your fortune.
