March 10: Returning

Black ducks fly
up the frozen river to roost.
Still light at six.

January 25: Duck wing

We were gathered at the window observing robins and waxwings foraging in the berry bushes down by the river, excited to see signs of life and color on this bone-chillingly cold day. Groups of black ducks flew upriver as we watched, moving quickly in small flocks of four or five--dark ducks with pale wing linings. We kept expecting to see an eagle at some point following behind--the reason for their flight--but we never did. I happened to be following one duck with my binoculars when the light caught the speculum--that patch of color--on its wing: such an indescribable, vivid blue-green. A millisecond later the color disappeared with a wingbeat as the duck flew on.

Fast-flying duck flashes
a breath-taking green.
Don't get attached to things.

January 5: Black duck

Still sick, still home, still spending a lot of my time just looking out the window, this morning I watched a single black duck make its way up the river against the current, edging around the newly developed fringes of ice on the banks, poking among the exposed stones and in the eddies. It hung out within view for a while, a dark silhouette in churning grey water framed by the sepia tones of the leaf-strewn banks and bare trees above. Then it was gone. Only the trees, dead leaves, and pale, expressionless sky remain. And me, here at the window.

Ice on the river.
Lone black duck skirts the edges,
too soon out of sight.