Crouched before the great earthen berm
Ear deep in crackling prairie grasses
With the northern wind lamenting the slate-gray sky
The contented gabbling, feet away
Promises that the rugged miles
Have not yet been wasted
Muted ducks for a muted world
The white speculum—a cotton boll
Amidst the browning field
A raft of Gadwalls
Dabbling among the ringtails
The sleet begins
As I spring the flock
Pellets of ice
Pellets of steel
Could one be harder than the other?
I wade into the frigid waters
Only denim to fight the chill
Yet one duck lost
Is one too many
When we understand the gravity
of this gray duck
kill
The ice now coats the barbed wire
And each step a harrowing feat
I’ve reach the summit
Of this hill called ‘Hell’
An abandoned homestead at my feet
The birds will hang within the barn
A day, at least, or more
Some Port, an orange, red currant jam
The sauce, called Cumberland, their paramour
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