Sometimes, the ducks are not aligned.
And sometimes, there may not even be a single fucking duck in sight.
From where I stand, the waters are choppy. There is no solid ground for me to walk across. And so I’ve set up camp, making a comfortable nest by the shore. Waiting for a feathered friend of purpose to cross my path again. To quack a little inspiration my way.
I sit in silence. Throw out a line, wait for the fish to bite. I could stay here. Comfortable.
Watching the waters break and curve before me. It’s easy. This no duck life. I start to forget what it’s like. That anxious trying to control feeling. The one where you grasp and reach. I watch the sun rise and set, the moon get wet.
I’m tired of trying to lure them in. These birds that don’t exist.