by Christina Baker
We step out the door, and the wailing stops,
dreary, restless day left forgotten inside.
Down the driveway, around the pond,
through air thick with rain recently departed
and more expected.
Soon my monologue
—Hear the frogs? Yes, that’s a duck.—
succumbs to the symphony of evening:
bird song carrying the melody
over a rondo of flowing water.
Now there is no need for shushing.
The peace of evening
is enfolding us,
till like the ducks in their nests
we slide wings over the eyes
of our souls and