The Way We Wobble

An orange-footed wobbler paced across

state-owned (that’s code for we own) grass

her dull brown plumage glinting when she paused,

to preen her brilliantly orange palmate:

a generous propulsion system for water fowl

and perhaps just a bit cumbersome when locked on dry land.

Further beyond our mistress of dabbling,

shorn grass grows into knee-high sward;

the lawn-keeper’s dereliction of duty

explained in a hand-written sign:

Duck nesting area. We’ll mow after her ducklings are grown and gone.

Along the growing edge, and even further beyond that

whir precariously planted pinwheels

their sun-sparkled blades

a quiet call to arms for:

children lost

children we are losing

children who might lose themselves

to see if someone cares.

And I wondered

–not for the first time–

and with some little dismay

what our world could be

if we took such care

of our own tender mamas

and their wee, precious babies?


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