A poet's horror is the duck
by David L. Hyde
Whose native sound should be, "Cluck-cluck."
As if to mock, as if to sneer,
He goes, "Quack-quack, " in voice quite clear.
"I am no chicken, "says the duck
Who on the water shows his pluck.
He turns abruptly from the bank,
Avoids a branch and skirts a plank.
He churns the water in his wake
And gives his comely head a shake.
Serenely calm upon the pond,
He marks out distant points beyond.
An ancient classic ship of down,
His colors are a lovely brown.
He'll find a haven out of sight.
Or voyage back before the night.
I watch you with affection, friend;
You stir vague dreams I yet defend.
For though our speech is not the same,
We move within a common frame.
But now I must confess the truth,
And this I do with no small ruth;
Though I'm a man and you're a duck,
Alas, it's I who go, "Cluck-cluck."