Little standing duck whose weight wobbles her feet,
Simple sallow duck sways in shallow water,
Unconcerned.
Dips beak in silt for grit and looks up,
So much gratitude for a little, a grain.

The known, the too well known is sneered,
A little vanity in understanding the latent perhaps?
To keep hid secret humour, whose hue only remains seen?
Reddened cheeks and jutting veins,
Or just leave it all unsaid, maybe.

Duck does not tuck it in.
Dredge she will for the least and lift it too.
Sinister chuckles she cackles at, what insolence!
Yet the vulnerability is unearthed any way.
Against the sun's glare little lingers,
Of the conceited ingenuity.
But why is being figured out such a scare?