Little mallard
perched on a rock just below the water’s surface,
webbed-feet-deep in the olive green water
of the Saint Charles River,
patiently pacing in circles,
you look around and call out
but no friend returns the call.
You stretch your wings and preen your plumage
in between quiet quacks
still unreturned.
You listen for a sound
but the air is filled with the sound
of passing cars
and far-off clanking of construction,
rustling coats and pattering footsteps
along the bridge from where I sit,
waiting too —
I look up from my poem
and realize you’re already gone.

≋

May 29, 2022
13h41
Québec City