Does the migrating duck truly know
what it is that he wants;
or is he caught up in peer pressure
when he conquers indecision,
and spreads his wings to fly
south?

Is it possible that as he soars,
like Icarus,
that he is accosted by doubt
while the late autumn sun
baptizes him?

And when he finally crashes down,
in some forgotten pond,
warmed by a tropical clime;
that he wonders what might have been,
and is overcome by regret?