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At evening watches the duck slow feeding the waterline.
Praises the duck. Such a fine white miracle breasting the mayfly.
Green of her tail feathers, space of her neck doubled in water paddles off with my mind.
Ducks I have known. Old duck mates of mine inspecting the meeting of air and liquid.
Make no mistake, duck. I´d like to eat you well cooked one bell-battered Sunday in April.
And I´d wear your gorgeous feathers in my hat, make a soup of the bones and give your leftovers to the cat.
Ken Smith
Read poems about / on: april, cat, green, water
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