Black, like a spacecraft after a fiery entry,
the duck, neck outstretched, wings short-span, landing-gear
up,
daggers through the air, crossing the tusky redwoods.
His fast wings beat defiance against gravity.
Then like Iris riding the rainbow-circle tube,
He curves his wings forward cupping the drag of air.
Now his image self-develops as he arcs down:
His legs reach red forward, his head lustres round green,
His speculum blue-purples, his chest blunts chestnut
His yellow bill pierces the steep line of the arc,
The feathers tipping his wings spread and separate,
and his bomeswish body sways falling fast to ground.
He slows with the water of the lake just below him;
He lands in a blink-spray of bright watery lights;
The flung-up flash falls into out-rippling circles;
In the concentric he floats as though always there.
We meet for a walk after twenty bereft years.
Will we land and talk as though always there, or go
round and round, awkwardly, in concentric circles?
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