Wet ducks act like dogs – they scratch their head with their foot
A loaf of feathers, damp greens, browns, streaks like black soot
They shake droplets from tails and from well-meaning passers-by
fetch breadcrumbs, thought I admit I prefer them cooked

Breast scored, rendered slow with sour cherries from Prague
Or crackling wings paired with sharp sheep’s milk cheese or a catalouge
of herbs, or preserved in a cassoulet holding court with sausauges 
or the head, dehydrated to a crisp as a treat for my own dog.