Edge of the edge, the ducks explore
Duckitude. They don’t know it, though.
They nibble at the sludgy shore
While we call names and say we grow
L’homme qui criat canard. That sedge
Is served them there so we can chime,
We should admit that. If they cadge
A breadcrumb, panic. A loup in time,
The ground subsides, the ducks retreat
Like Muscovy. Here, let us count.
One duck, two ducks: this life is sweet,
When wild in just the right amount.