Ducks Still Can’t Park

Duck teenagers prank ducklings in reeds.

Ducks Still Can’t Park

Massabesic. The water isn’t the same.

Last year's drought displacement dried the shore. This year's excess makes mud, murk and mired green.

Color of smoky glass. Basement windows in early Spring.

I’m not sure what’s real anymore. Such a haze; the LCD needs cleaning.

The full clouds are quick spread cake frosting.

My eyes make distillate pixels from the 7:30 pm heat.

I miss last year's predictability. A good chance Phil would be at the inlet.

There is no inlet this year. The Lake is too full of anxious water, anxiety’s green.

So much stronger in stature, anxious with Her new power.

Dapples of rain.

The clouds are a thousand quiet children with eye droppers of rain.

Near the sailboats the Sun grabs a slice of vanilla cloud.

The sponge breaks free from the poorly spread icing.

There! A pink fire swells in the batter, then dims.

A duck jets by, steadies as much as a duck can, gets a better angle, no… a better one… hold on… another… Crash!

2021 and ducks still can’t park.

To hear the bird rear smash-butt-splash-crash the water is a temple bell.

Finally, I remember the meaning, the measure, and the majesty of meditations on Massabesic Lake.

The cake batter cloud grabs more of what’s left of the late Sun.

Duck teenagers prank ducklings in reeds.

Last year those reeds were a shore where a shoeless toddler picked up a twig and tossed it!

The stick stuck to his windbreaker, too slow to fall, only touched his toes. Only made him laugh, a maskless laugh.

More traffic. Same sound. Same loud. Lasts a little longer this year.

Kids in the clouds drop their eye-droppers and dash with the Sun behind- no- into the batter.

Their wake is the breeze that breaks the humidity.

I’d stay longer but nights go dark, lovely and deep around here; and there's still those miles to go before I sleep to tend to.

Actually, it's about an eight-minute drive in an air-conditioned sedan to my house or Frost’s Farm.

Rob's ceiling is more museum-sy.

Under my roof the dreams are more muse than seem, so naturally, that’s the way to go.

Good to be back home, but nights still go dark and deep, and my bed is under a smaller roof, where the only chance of an eye-dropper kind of rain is in an eyes-closed kind of dream.