Brown water, rocks and trees,
habitat of geese and ducks.
Endless ripples blur the water’s surface, and
no cloud is mirrored on its face.
The season of death
robs the color from this vista,
while snow paints majestic peaks
touching clouded skies.
Willows, with fall-rusted leaves stubbornly clinging,
sway like hair in the pre-storm winds, and
pompous grass banners bend northward
shaking in anticipation of winter’s cold touch.
Black-headed geese with white chin straps
bob peacefully on unsettled waters, or
stand one-legged – beaks buried ‘neath their wings
in Zen-like balanced repose.
Why doesn’t the wind knock them over?
A lone green-headed mallard swims amongst the geese
muttering to himself and looking for his kind.
He seems to know he is an interloper.
Finally he spies his clan resting sleepily beneath a spreading pine, and
quickly retreats to a more accepting place.
A sudden disturbance makes the geese run on water –
flapping wildly and finally lifting
into the sullen November sky.
© 2012 Michael Hunter