|
| |
The Black Duck
Among a group of dull-brown mallard hens,
a black duck rests on the raised rim of the park’s
reflecting pool. His shape, sleek and smooth,
stands out – a silhouette, sharply cut into
the glaring morning air, his plumage gleaming
with the sheen of a highly polished surface.
He takes note of my approach but remains in place.
As I come closer, he quickly rises, and stretching
his black wings like one just getting out of bed,
each feather articulated crisp and sharp, he slips
breast-first into the water without a splash
and glides off to the safety of a patch of water lilies,
his neck tall, his regal head slimmed down to
his whittled beak. But his head is still turned
toward me, and that red-ringed eye of his
impinges on my eyes as though a fine incision
had been traced there, and suddenly I see blood.
Copyright ©
Maurice Rigoler
|
|