Magic ducks appear
in March to cast
reflections upon
freshly thawed ponds,

to stir ripples,
sprinkled in golden
angel dust and

to enchant me
with simplicity.

I felt the sun today
and lifted my face.
Forget wrinkle warnings
for once; it’s February
and sunlight is like water
after days of only coffee.

What a day for dancing

when brisk cold cuts

your clothes, burns

your nose, steals

your breath.

What a day for dancing.

a train whistle sounds
though there’s not a set of tracks
for forty miles, some trucker,
maybe, wants us to think
he’s an engineer,

a little boy’s leftover dream,
making boring days seem more
in the eyes of other men,
who like him, wish
they had grasped the reins
while the horse was within reach.