And there,

as the drops fall, I circle
the labyrinth, holding space
for a single pilgrim walking—

Blessings on your journey—

on this stormy Sunday that
couldn’t be more different than
yesterday’s blue-sky perfection,

today next to another impulsive
creek burbling its way river-ward,
when I see a flash of feathers—

a mallard pair floating gently
down the stream, tasting the
childhood tune on my lips—

merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
life is but a dream—

because it is, this dreamy existence,
one in which no boat needs rowing,
the female mallard leading,

her partner following their own
watery pathway, as I puddle around
the circumference of this life,

watching the wayfarer on
the labyrinth take step after deliberate
step on her pilgrimage.

I make my way to her, and,
as she re-enters the world,
whisper, Welcome back,

as her misty cheeks flush,
and the ducks quack their way
so very gently down the sweet,

rain-rich stream.