The quips and quacks of a
slow-moving duck. Dark eyes
on the sides of her clicking
head. Paddle feet circling in
the black water of the North
Branch. And a broad concrete
pillar rising to the dirty underside
of Foster Avenue. In the water
she feels the vibrations of cars,
trucks, and buses—a stream
of grumbling humans
trying to get home.
Perhaps this is what prompts
her to announce in her matter-
of-fact animal language, and
to nothing in particular,
"This is how it is."
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