Five bucks a beak.
All proceeds to charity.
Last sale, 10.45am.

No current? No problem.
The brigade is here – yellow chests, red trucks,
as though their uniform
was designed for this very day.

At 11.01, the flock is dropped
blasted from the bank
by a firehose.

Head becomes tail, back becomes belly –
crossing the river at snail speed.

The luckiest ducks
are the kids:
their thighs warm against black rock,
their toes licking the water.
And one, the luckiest of all?
He’s right in the race, up to his waist
sheparding a live white duck.

Mandarin feet
paddle briefly in the air
before being plunged back on course …
only to turn again towards the surf.

Meanwhile, above our sweaty scalps
the sea and sky blow blue and free
slipping the grip
of our best-laid plans
to tame
or frame.

A visual meditation in response to Claude Monet’s “Cliffs at Pourville”, attending today’s Great Duck Derby at Seven Mile Beach Gerroa, and inspired by the daily post: Crossing.

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