but this duck is shiny with wet.
Paddling, lifts a wing, shows
a stripe of blue. She dips her face
into the lake, lifts it up shining—
beak dribbling—and all down
her throat is wet, and all down her breast,
that proud front pushing ripples
out and out, whose curve
is her muscle. That open mountain, that
expansion, that inbreath, that
heart, that most unprotected
feather palm is glistening with wet.