When I was in grade school, I raised a flock of mallards, drakes, hens, and their ducklings. I had over thirty at once. If you read my poem, “ Ghost Flyers ,” you know that I grew up on an airport. A regional airline called North Central (later to reincarnate as Northwest Airlines) made a stop of two at that local airport where I grew up. Well, my ducks loved the little ponds tucked around and in between the runways. Typically, they flew over to the ponds and had their way. (No I didn’t clip their wings, and if you wonder why they stayed around, it’s simple: Free food and lots of it. Why fly away?) But as usual, I digress – as if this whole narrative isn’t a digression from this week’s poem. So, back to North Central. Now and then, the mallards chose to walk between the small ponds. Usually, there was no incident; however, on one particular day, a proud mama duck and half a dozen ducklings walked across the runway just as North Central’s DC-3 was taxiing in to drop off and pick up p...
A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. Thomas Mann