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January 2014, vol 9, no 4

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Robert Davey

Ducklings


The Easter holiday. After two days of heavy rain we woke to a clear sky. My younger sister and brothers wanted to go out and play. I stayed at home to read my new book.

We lived on a large but quiet estate with a little brook running through it. After all the rain, the brook had become a muddy yellow river, lapping at the green the local kids played on.

combing ripples
into the water
a lodged branch

My adventure story was interrupted by a thumping on the back door. I heard a man's voice shouting. Downstairs, on the doorstep, was a furious neighbour, his trousers and jacket dripping. My three year old brother, pale and sodden, was climbing into our mother's arms.

the duck again...
her line of ducklings
dwindling




crane