What is the secret to life,
to live it the way it was meant?
Where do I learn survival,
how to feel at peace and content
even in winter’s cold rain,
a calypso of needley sleet
that beats on my head sharp staccato
while ice encrusts my feet?
How do they do it, these ducks,
apparently comfy and warm,
despite the bleak and the biting
of frigid late winter storm?
Could I be as gladly oblivious
to cruelty, bloodshed and dreck
if I wore my own feather bed
and had rubber band for a neck?
Or maybe I’m mistaken,
and they are not placidly sleeping,
but seek pond solitude
for private silent weeping.
And thus, dear reader, ends February. With deadly ice and alien snowfall, with roaring winds and crashing downpours and tornado sirens and mid-day darkness and — of course — more news of suffering and idiocy. I watch the ducks and wonder what they know.