on a blankety sea of duck droppings we grasp hour after hour pointing to the brown stain underneath us I talk quietly about my parents, hadn’t quite sorted my own head, things I didn’t understand as a child, that I thought about families, but a girl doing ugly outfit with lots of pockets stuffed with tennis balls I can’t stop looking at her, nor speaking in duck-calls, we are worried now about the future of our children and of earth & heaven come
