As When Waking

Heads tucked
into the dark
jamb of breast and wing, the mallards sleep in
knots. Two dozen of them
litter the blue ice—doze against waves frozen
mid-curl. Bright cracks fissure the pond like
neurons, like veins, like
oak branches advancing into the open air—
presence mimed by absence—
quiet
ruptures, all. While the mallards
suck winter sun into
their dark backs, they dream their way into the pond’s green
underneath—
vie
with half-open eyes for the muddy floor. Light filters down in
x’s, runs its fingers through the gloom. When dreaming, as when
  waking, the mallards can do little else but
yearn: For a pure white sun stalled at its
zenith; for round-edged bits of
apple
bread; for yet more
cold and knotted bodies with whom to share the
day. Above all, they dream that—somewhere under all this ice,
      where they can one day find it—there is an
egg-shaped hole in the
floor of the world, from which all
good things swim