She defines a small space really --
a brown speckled bump on
the solid yellow line
of Gordon Drive.
Feather’s ruffled by
intent mini-vans and
her expiration date is blessedly past.
They say mallards mate once,
and I wonder…
what will he think
when she doesn’t come home for dinner?
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Hi LA. Thank you so much for the considerate critique. You gave me some great advice to think about, and maybe I'll change it some day. Like you said, I knew when I finished that I made it too long but I had some extra ideas that I wanted to hold until I could decide if I wanted them or not later. Anyway... great poem. Very sad and contemplative. How often do we think about dead animals on the road, much less care? You made me care and think. Excellent work. God bless.