December 17, 2019
by Pamela Leavey
The line moves
Drawn and driven
By a finely feathered force
It fans outwards
Creating a palpable pattern
Of disruption.
They look like small children
Scampering about
On a green lawn—
They flap their wings
Suddenly, they lift off
Splashing the still water.
They spiral downward
Then swoop and swirl
On the wafting wind
They sweep, swerve
Swivel and dive
And then they diverge
Back into the motionless drink,
Creating fresh, fluid
Lines of movement.
Suddenly, the lines begin to dwindle
While they intermingle
Amidst the still steel blue water
Motion becomes
Barely perceptible—
Reflection resonates
As the still water
No longer replicates
The movement of mallards.
Originally published on Red Skies Magazine.
