The locals knew that the Giant sleepwalked,
that it often snarled, and balked while
standing hip-deep in the bog.
Where not a thing waddled or quacked at all.
Until a familiar star flashed from the edge of consequence,
driving away the night, the fright, and the awful bite.
But not the Giant, his stomach gurgling,
when a group of sharply stirred ducks burst through the flatness of the scene.
They were four, a hen, a drake, and two fledglings,
not enough to be called a raft or a flock
but curious about their new home and the strange nightly noise.
So, the elders split, one headed east, the other west
while the young ones stayed near the nest
to watch for relevant signs
but wound-up playing hide and seek near the broad reeds.
Then, finally, too soon— the smaller of these two could not find the other
and became quite troubled.
Leaving three wide-eyed ducks willed to forage,
paddle, and make significant decisions, shivering on the shore.
The Giant, blocking the sun, casting a colossal shadow,
considering his slow routine while swallowing the second tiny appetizer.
The hungry Giant, a slave to his method.
And two quaking grown-ups dipping now
beneath the surface
for a slow nip before their unplanned trip,
large wings flapping up into the blue, as
they streaked from the beast.
The hotheaded Giant doing shrugs
choosing to broil a flatbed of Black Angus
steak, having received a terrible ache
from a previous drake, causing him to belch
at the star and to spew.
© C.S. DeDona 10-14-21