What ducks will say

shovelful after shovelful
to clear the patio and the pit
and the question mark back
remains after shaking snow
and ice from the iron cage

behavior of an older age
an age once I will be soon
where I can take the time
to ponder over such things
and look back at where I am

for now, paper is torn
to strips and laid over sticks
in the concave metal disc
as remaining snow waits
to melt and boil and fade

little flames flicker with
the striking of a match
and the wind whistles
through the paper tunnels
its love song for fire

the box of junk mail slowly
empties into the growing
heat and smoke, the pair
a paparazzi who will not
stay out of my face and breath

in avoiding their constant
attention, I look up and find
a scrambled flock of ducks
who sound of loose belts
on old cars speeding on by

their flight reminds me
to pause from my endeavor
to find more than feeding
a fire is happening in this
moment I choose to live

that I should stop and
see the ash from the flames
and how the winds scatter
black bits across the snow
in this small scaled backyard

to remember a larger scale
of the world I choose to
live in, the darkening snow
of a thawing sea, something
more to fight a war over

but I am only burning
the mail I didn't want so
I can clean the office for now
and go on with the day
I choose to live in now