MARY OLIVER’S DUCKS
If I had Mary Oliver’s ducks,
it would be a different story.
We might be talking
National Book Award or better.
Mary Oliver’s ducks, or David Whyte’s
– not to mention Annie Dillard’s –
make life worth living
no matter what your people are up to.
They quack and a quiet joi de vivre
seeps into your soul.
But the ducks in my neighborhood
are big and ugly,
the size of geese and just as vicious.
Red, splotchy faces betraying some ancestral liaisons
with turkey buzzards.
One has a wing that sticks straight out,
– his badge of honor from a bar room brawl.
The ducks in my neighborhood
chase the dogs.
Even the menacing chow turns tail.
Large these ducks, but quick of webbed foot.
They hurry between your car and the porch,
block your path, demanding bread,
then your watch.
You cannot write poems about such ducks.
Even Mark Strand could not
– they have escaped from his disquiet dreams.
Oh but if I had Mary Oliver’s ducks,
it would be a different story.
—Dan Edwards