The Decoy
The Decoy
He sits there,
in the ivy,
a wooden mallard
half-hidden by leaves,
facing the driveway
as if keeping watch
over Amazon deliveries
and neighborhood gossip.
He was carved for water—
for the drift and shimmer—
but here he is,
a sentinel of suburbia,
floating not on a pond
but a hedge.
You might think he’s lost,
confused, maybe demoted
from lake duty to lawn ornament.
But look closer—
there’s a smile there,
small as a secret,
the kind that might have played
across the Mona Lisa’s face
when she realized
everyone else was still searching.
That painted eye
has seen the mallards come and go,
heard the hum of engines,
the click of sprinklers,
the slow migration
of human ambition.
He is not fooled
by the mirror of the pond,
nor by flight.
He’s chosen his stillness.
Chosen to rest
where no one thinks
a duck belongs.
And perhaps,
in his wooden wisdom,
he’s the only one among us
who’s already home.