Is It Poetry (1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)
Her drowsy head, mid summers heat.
He lifts his right wing, which is limp,
To hear him sing,
inside upon the water where the lake.
Indistinct these lakes are distant to between.
The oil on his feathers where they are green.
Spread across the open water,
romance has left seven separate trails.
Comments about this poem (Nine Ducks by Is It Poetry )
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