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Wild Ducks

The Sky Awash With Poetry

As I drive home, my hands take turns on the wheel, my right shoulder aching. Rain streaks the windows until I stop before the highway, find myself staring at bubbles bouncing on the uneven pavement. Those wild ducks who rose from the golf course to follow one another through the fog keep flying over me as I drive home. I wonder how far they have flown by now, how the rain streaks their sleek backs, and in what green mist they will rest when they grow tired and must come down.

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