When the Whistling Wings Whispered "Good Morning"

Thunderous trumpets followed

melancholy murmurs while

courageous clucks,

quivering quacks, and

hellacious honking hails

echoed from the tongue of opened beaks.

The calendar calls spring,

but the temperatures scream winter.

Splashes seem salient,

yet so small on The Big Lake,

only to be pictured by the mind,

without ethics.

Maybe the splash was the mischievous muskrat,

a wild beast.

Or the meticulous mallard

loosed upon the world.  

Perhaps my mind mended those mallards and muskrats out of cattail,

weaved from memorable mornings that meant more than shooting ducks.

Outside the capsule of my mind,

blackjacks and bluebills bantered as

a breath bounced off blue water,

evaporated by the cosmos,

never to echo from the same tongue again.

Eventually,

the sun peeked over the earth and created a new day

while free-floating feathered silhouettes filled the fiery sky.

But the true day started long before the silhouettes sang

or the sun signaled start. 

It began as the dark

gleaned a glimpse of first light and

whistling wings whispered, “good morning.”