[for blindpoetry:] "Write up aids and ducks, wait... OH MY GOD... write about ducks with aids..." - horus8 It’s odd how on this snowy morning I’m given a dying bird as a figure. It shows the humor of things, if not the intent. A crow wouldn’t have stopped me; but a duck, stiffened, scratching duck angels in the thin snow In an empty corner of Trafalgar Square at dawn – that’s inspired. So I watch, thinking I’ve never seen the process itself, just the effect. At the last moment is there white light spiraled weightless as down into the air - is it enough to believe in? I wouldn’t know From experience. So, duck: today your loss is my gain. You’ll die of a sick heart, of AIDS, with your two wrists slit, me looking on. It’s hardly fair, I’m sure. But then we all die under crosses which other, less-gentle hands have made – And I suspect by the time you’re aware of my burden, you’ll be halfway to decayed.