NaPoWriMo #24: Chilling on the Water

They know a lot them ducks,
about where it's best to retire
when the need for rest takes over.

A mallard, who works every day
on the weir-torn river in town,
dabbles on an oval lake

designed by gardeners
imitating nature's haphazard
perfection.

He mingles with the swans and geese,
scoffs at the moorhens
as they patrol the reed.

The moorhens return the gesture.

His family sit on the banks,
five fuzzy brown ducklings
and their speckled mother.

The ducklings learn to swim
in an uncertain straight line,
the first of many lessons

while their father tries to sleep
on the water, and is dive-bombed
over and over by a hooligan chaffinch.

At day's end, they sit and watch
the swans argue over who shall chase
an unsuspecting coot.

Wildfowl

On a Wednesday, bleak and drizzly,
the pond surface hardly sizzly,
ducks dabble and watch as the world
goes by with the speed of a snail.

Not a single thing disturbs them,
yet the dawn of night rouses them
to prepare for the evening's rave,
for the evening's great pond rave,
a rave all the wildfowl crave.

They line the waters in their droves,
led by the Mute Swan Club of Stow,
with geese, grebes and moorhens galore.
A moulting mallard emerges from reeds

to begin his set intended to please
birds from Cardiff to Tennessee
who gather near the shallow shore
to hear what tunes the duck has in store,
sounds not heard on the pond before.

The mixer rises from the depths
where the sticklebacks would have slept
had it not been a Wednesday night.
Distorted honking and quacking,

with feathers ruffled and scratching,
the rave rages and rages all night
'till the return of the sunlight
and all the wildfowl take flight.

Flying Hare

Waking up in the meadows,
I want to see what the fuss is.
Think I'll go to the riverbank
and see what's jamming.

The rabbits are by the water,
chilling with the ducks
and moorhens on the riverbank.
That's when I arrive.

I cross the bridge and join
the rabbits by the bushes.
It's a good place to relax
while the ducks do their thing.

I meet a few friends of mine:
Roving Otter, Father Vole,
Smoking Goose. We
kick back in the summer sun.

J. B. Mink cruises by, staring,
which petrifies poor Vole.
Mink swims away downstream.
Makes my ears twitch.

Somewhere on the meadows
the swallows and the skylarks
are singing a groovy symphony.
We go over to check it out.

(The video version of this poem is up on the YouTube channel at this link: http://youtu.be/54xxP1NK7os)