A young man once asked
a cab driver in a troubled voice,
“Where do the ducks go
in the wintertime?”
Call me ignorant.
Call me out on my simplicity,
but similar thoughts have crossed my mind.
You shake your head at me,
rolling your stormy blue eyes.
You tell me they fly south
just like the robins and the geese.
But, as you sit there
with a smug smile pursed on your lips,
I can’t help but wonder
about the last one to hatch--
the runt of the bunch that struggled
to free himself from his warm white enclosure.
I can’t help but think
of the yellow ball of fluff
that still waddles behind his mother,
watching wide-eyed from the ground
while his brothers take off into the horizon.
Where do the ducks go
when the pond freezes over?
Where do we go when
the icy wind is at our faces,
and we’re not sure if we can fly?