He holds the day like duck feather.

Good or bad weather
Silver dimes or rusted nails
Through them all he quietly sails.

On the way small flowers he plucks
In thrill’s quiver sings joyous cluck
When rough tides break him he reveals not crack
Doesn’t complain when the clouds are black.

If his wings feel weary he stops the swim
A shore he finds to rest in dream
For the duck feather each day is a gain
To swim in the pond, his piece of haven.