(for Dick Schmidt, aka Uncle Duck,
in honor of National Rubber Ducky Day)

When, as little kids, your niece and nephew
christened you Uncle Duck, giggling over
the clever wordplay, you were stuck.

Forever after, ducks appeared for birthdays
and Christmases, many of them designed
for bathtubs that you did not use—

ducks sporting a variety of headwear—
baseball caps and police helmets,
ducks as pilots and nurses, pirates

and hard hatted workers. I acquired
some, too, by virtue of being your
duckly consort—Queen Elizaduck I

with her red hair and ruff is a favorite.
(I have passed on presidential ducks
and a gruesome zombie duck with its

eyeball hanging out.) But it is clear to
those who know you as The Duck that
you are unique among webbed ones,

one who, every spring, flies to his
neighborhood pond looking for those
of a feather who have flown in

seasonally, some of whom lay eggs
and produce ducklings that bob
down the waterways just like

the rubber versions of their kind,
un-hatted, fluffy balls with little
fast-paddling feet. You take their

photos, Uncle Duck, chronicling
the newest generation of waterfowl
that may not yet recognize you

as one of them, as one of us,
our favorite bird.