Like a Duck

Nine weeks and one day.

It was warm yesterday and I am clinging to hopeful images of spring. Images of the boys planting peas and spinach in the garden with me, or throwing a ball and having it land in the garden. Small hands digging in the dirt, toys littering the yard, running, laughter. I want to grow more laughter in our garden this spring.

In the meantime, I am trying to remember the duck in this poem, and to be a little more like him.

The Duck

by Donald Babcock

Now we're ready to look at something pretty special.
It is a duck, riding the ocean a hundred feet beyond the surf.
No it isn't a gull. A gull always has a raucous touch about him.
This is some sort of duck, and he cuddles in the swells.

He isn't cold, and he is thinking things over.

There is a big heaving in the Atlantic, and he is a part of it.

He looks a bit like a mandarin, or the Lord Buddha meditating under the Bo tree.

But he has hardly enough above the eyes to be a philosopher.

He has poise, however, which is what philosophers must have.

He can rest while the Atlantic heaves, because he rests in the Atlantic.

Probably he doesn't know how large the ocean is.

And neither do you.
But he realizes it.

And what does he do, I ask you?

He sits down in it!
He reposes in the immediate as if it were infinity — which it is.
He has made himself a part of the boundless by easing himself into just where it touches him.

I like the duck.

He doesn't know much.
But he's got religion.