by Earl Livings

So keen am I to hear nature as I wander
the lake edge in picking rain,
when the Pacific black duck waddles
towards me, I stop, greet her.

Other creatures—dusky moorhens, wood ducks,
musk ducks, coots, cormorants, grebes—
ignore me or flee me by dashing away
or squawking and taking wing.

Not her. She moves back and forth,
side to side, watches me, with bursts
of soft quacking, until I realise
those eight ducks behind her,

squatting on slabs of stone between
sandy path and water, facing away,
are her clutch, large enough now
for flight but still huddled in care.

I step back, apologise for the bother,
walk on, this human who thinks
the world has something deep to say,
which it does, so obvious now.