The duck in the shadow spits and barks.

He is gazing into yesterday’s oil-slicked

puddles, looking for the meteor shower.

He is out late, much later than usual.

Ducks do not do well at night.

They don’t have the eyes for it.

And by the way, you’d be surprised

if you knew how things smelled to a duck.

To a duck lots of things that are

quite different smell just the same.

Or not at all.

The duck in the dark isn’t feeling well.

I hope you can believe me, after I admit

that I lied about him spitting and barking.

Ducks don’t spit, not the way we mean.

And though to a duck a quack sounds

just like a bark (in fact ducks actually

call a quack a bark) to us it’s not really

the kind of sound we’d call a bark. Close,

but no. And just to come completely clean

no, he wasn’t really looking for meteors.

The duck in the dark isn’t feeling well

because he is old, and because he ate

something that normally kills a duck.

If the duck were a young strong duck

he would have a little better chance.

But our duck (his name is Rayburn)

has no such luck. He is an old duck.

Don’t get me wrong. Ducks eat all

kind of junk. It seems to be in their nature.

So it’s nobody’s fault in particular.

Rayburn isn’t a particularly sensitive

duck. He doesn’t write much poetry, for

example. At least not the way we mean.

But to think that Rayburn doesn’t have

feelings would be quite a mistake. For

example he loves the sound of his friends

barking across the wide freshwater pond.

Especially late in autumn, when the cold

airs come. The barking seems to warm him.

It comforts him. It gives him heart.

Unfortunately whatever Rayburn ate has

made him deaf as well. So not only does he

feel sick, he’s also lost that sense of being

close to his friends. And that’s made him

lonely. The sun is setting quickly now. Rayburn

looks across the choppy waters of the pond

hoping he’ll spot one of his many cousins.

He looks ahead, behind, to either side. Nothing.

Then he thinks he hears something, off to the northwest

and tries his best to spread his stiffening wings.

But it’s no use. Rayburn drifts over to the near

shore and lays up in a clump of mangrove weeds.

A few baby blue gill swim around him, as if

they are playing a game of tag or hide-and-seek.

But Rayburn is no longer hungry. For the first time

in his duck life, he can simply look at them whirling

about, splashing, having fun. Somehow this pleases

him. He even manages what passes for a duck smile.

Then he lays his sleek brilliant head on an outcrop

of mud and fern, and sleeps. And dreams. And sleeps.