(A recent one prompted at a Blowing Rock pond.)
Drama At A Blue Ridge Pond
Several Mallards, not quite roughing it,
paddle around a mid-sized pond.
As families circle the walking trail, when
any bunch on one side, the sord beelines across
the pond causing a wake, feathers flying behind
to where tourists—yakking, snapping photos—cluster.
They quack in a frenzy, eyes beckoning, swimming
in circles for popcorn, hot-dog-bun ends, and
morsels of granola, mashing their toothless bills
and washing down their hors d’oeuvres
with pond water, waving tail feathers.
Of course, the males, shaking their gleaming
dark-green heads, bully for the best spots
until a majestic white swan approaches
like a cruise ship aiming towards port
and the ducks bolt
to farthermost shady banks
as if they heard a red-tailed hawk cry.
They quack in hushed tones until behind them
they hear familiar sounds and quickly waddle
to the path where a family pauses, kids munching.