The duck who laughed at sunset
Water spirals and flows back, or forth.
The motion is calming although somewhat changing.
It moves as the day changes to night.
The light illuminates the sky, sun rays spreading far through the sporadic clouds above. Wispy, full, almost spring like.
It moves further to it’s place of rest, set. Behind the high rise it casts us all into a silhouette.
The ducks play with the children at the water's edge. Chasing crumbs and floating back and forth. A distant cackle pricks my ears. Perhaps it was the children playing.
The leaves are carried from the tree branches to an already foliaged floor. They tumble and spin and drift downwards. Yellow, orange, golden shades of brown.
The birds on high swoop low over the waters; In set formation, gliding in and on and back to the sky.
A friendly chirp can be heard, carried on the soft spring-like breeze. It’s autumn, winter even. Now the 8th of November.
The ducks make their way upstream, or is it down.
And then it crosses my path, from silhouette to exposure.
A cackle as loud as a belly laugh. I can’t but giggle along at whatever joke was told amongst the duck community.
Oh Fall. The rise then of.