The Duck

I am waiting for the train.
Three more minutes says the arrival board.
It says two now.
I must have looked at it at the end of the first minute.
Or the board and I don't have the same perception of time.
I look outside.
The gray canal and gray boats.
An empathetic gray sky.
Gray humans.

On the water, three black ducks.
My seconds are numbered.
I focus my thoughts on a duck,
The one on the right.

The duck is alive.
No one seems to care.
It is alive!
Its body moves and breathes in and out.
It has a beating heart like mine.
A liver and lungs.
And feathers it carefully waterproofs with oil,
Webbed feet that propel it in water.
It does not reason.
It knows.

Whose personal mythology
Does such a perfect creature come from?

The duck does not need me.
I need it.
The duck does not even notice me.
It lives in a perpetual present time
Without having to look at its reflection
In another being
And ponder life and nature
To reach that state.
It's already there.

I'm in awe before the duck's effortless existence.
It is grand.
Its divine essence is palpable.
It already possesses the abilities I seek,
And teaches me.

We are as blind as angry children.
We need simpler and windier lives.