Meditations on the Frosty Mallard The pond freezes over in winter, Or so my mind presumed. As I walk through the park, The sky reaches dark, And the icy lake is consumed. Oh, but on the far end I see them. There must have been at least twenty three. The ducks scattered, all swirled, Not a care in the world, Swimming in their sliver of sea. The time for migration has long since passed, But the ducks seem simply too attached. They’re a sentimental brood, Plus we shouldn’t exclude, That they’ve known just this lake since they’ve hatched. The winter has come and it’s ravaged this pond, Yet the ducks still swim just the same. The cold will be done, And the summer brings sun And this vast, scary lake they’ll reclaim. Ron Glas
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