Thanksgiving at the Lake

I walk beside the icy lake and spot

A duckling, camouflaged beneath the reeds,

Along the distant edge, a tiny dot —

His papa — gathers food among the weeds.

I wonder, will he slide on wobbly legs,

With mushed-up worms and crunchy little bugs,

While Mama gently warms her other eggs,

To feed his son and give him duckling hugs?

My daddy’s hauling fishing nets onboard

His breath a cloud, he stands on aching feet.

He swings the sail and grasps the heavy cord,

I watch him, twirling, from the captain’s seat.

A busy father’s work is never done,

from daylight’s birth until the setting sun.