So the oddest thing
happened this morning,
the third day
since the beginning of
the spring monsoon.
I was sipping hot tea,
lost in thought,
watching the rain
weep from the sky.
A female mallard
sauntered up my circle drive,
her handsome friend
waited in the wings.
She waddled determinedly,
as though she had something
to speak to me about,
maybe to borrow
a cup of birdseed or
invite me to book club,
although it might be unlikely
we shared the same taste
in literature.
Perhaps it was to complain
about the noiseness of my hens,
or to protest their spreading gossip.
I imagined, as she swung her
tail feathers purposefully
en route to my front stoop,
that she was sporting
a stylish handbag
tucked under her wing,
a flashy pair of all weather boots
keeping her webbed feet dry.
As I cracked open the front door,
I fully expected her to say,
"Good day, Mrs. Hill.
May I join you for tea?"
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