The Duck Season

Chill and ice-covered to the footsteps thrust,

The lacy twigs snap in the sunken marsh,

The row-boats scraping at the tidal rust,

Nag at the beach, continuous and harsh.

Here in the morning silence, before day

Stamps out the last stars of the moonless night,

Time seems to pause; the dark retrievers play

Around their master's feet, awaiting light.

The slow dawn brightens in the curving east,

With liquid pearl the waters crest and gleam;

Pearl etches out each tree, and man and beast

Stand unconcealed, like creatures in a dream.

The first ducks slanting on the wind's sharp breath,

Their pinions tipped with silver, veer and rise

Hard from the runnel-edge of certain death,

And men with sunlight in their frosty eyes.