The ducks huddle in the water against the cold wind as winter weavers her slender fingers through their hair – oiled feathers their own protection from the deep chill and the intense isolation this season brings.
I walk here watching them wait, for the ice to melt, for the change of season that brings them warm kiss to their cheeks.
They wait, picking at whatever offerings winter deems they should have, they accepting each previous bit as manna from a goddess they can only imagine, keeping faith that their waiting will bring them some reprieve, some sense of forgiveness in this Easter season when the death of winter leads to rebirth and perhaps salvation.
They wait and I walk, watching them wait.
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