Poems
by Lynn Gilbert

I see eight mallards stuck in the frigid creek
because a black cat—part Persian
by the fat, frizzy body—blocks their
exit ramp into the brush where they like to
hole up, in this weather, most of the day.
I watch them bunch together and mill around
in the water near where they want out.
The cat swishes its tail and creeps
a bit closer, but can’t risk a real swipe
at them. In time it gives up and minces
along the wet creek-side path it’s made,
a trail of dotted black against patchy
white snow like a line of ink blobs
left by a faulty pen. Snow is falling
but not enough to repair rain’s inroads
of the last few days. We’re caught
partway between pristine snow cover
and all bare ground—warmer, hopeful
towards spring.... I count again by pairs
and there are actually ten ducks,
now floating serenely downstream toward
the park pond, which is partly covered
in thin ice that shines like mica
against open, black water—a surface
beneath which the creek current
never stops moving. Mallards travel
as couples; the cat, alone. As do I,
wherever it is that I’m headed.