WE are that kind of town-bred country folk
that say, when asked, oh yes, we do keep stock,
then easily turn the subject to one side.
Some friends persist; they want to know the worst.
"If you," I tell them, "want to do this, understand:
sometimes you'll have to take the place of God."
Our ducks, good Khaki Campbells, come by mail
in lots of twenty, every second year.
When small, they're all engaging, all underfoot,
following our steps with small heartwarming cries.
But half are drakes. In high summer
I don my serious face, and tie with care
my long blue apron on. I go out to the barn
with butcher's block, and like the surgeon
spread my choicest tools nearby. The axe
is first, and as its blade is rising,
I feel the panic rising in the eyes
hidden beneath my unrelenting hand.