Ducks flew aloft in long lines,
bullet trains rocketing to the next stop.

Their reflection’s magnetism pushing,
more than wings pulling,

a hovering wind rush, a whistle, an explosive quack.
So different than feeding mallards

with my grandfather as a child.
All squat hustle, webbed feet scrambling

in the gravy brown dirt for the juiciest
part of the loaf from our silent hands.

Lacking teeth, their lamellae
strained against the crusts.

They tossed their heads
scattering frustrated crumbs.

Later, laughing and shaking his head,
my grandfather preened in pride

at my failure to solve his riddle.
Which weighs more, a pound

of white feathers, or a pound
of gold? At what age

do you learn the weight of a pound,
a question? How to fly away inside yourself,

maybe it’s better to chew on your own teeth
than take the proffered bait?

Now my teeth are migrating
forward in my mouth,

tumbling over each other
after holding so much back.

The dentist claims it’s natural.
Like ducks landing feet first.

Announcing their arrival,
weary miles rolling off

surface tension broken,
a dam of words breaking free.