Duck Calls

A lone Mallard sits

at the crest

of the metal church roof

quacking.

Making such a racket

as the sun breaks

into the sky,

I wonder if he has rooster-envy.

Rather, I think,

he is calling

for his tardy mate.

All at once the tilt

of his emerald head is

somehow familiar.

I hear your voice

in unison with his.

“I am waiting for you.”

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