After months in weeds, I thought my little blue boat was
ruined.
It hardly leaks at all.
Hop in, I say to a wood duck watching from the shore.
See how it feels to be a passenger
for a change.
He nods yes, he would like that.
and we drift, us two, for hours
over Lake Washington
until I see a face
staring up at me from the reeds.
Come on in, it whispers,
the water’s fine,
which startles me awake.
The duck has flown.
How far away the shore is now, how very far away.
Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle, formerly Honolulu. She has been published in The American Journal of Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Medusa’s Kitchen, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, and the Rye Whiskey Review.
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