Simmering

Ducks at dawn. Thick blue rain. A lake that shimmers, gleams under the milky moon, spills itself out onto everything. Whispers through the air, ripples of water touching the duck’s back, water sliding, colliding, rustling feathers, a cool white body shifting. Glints of sunlight, a shaft opening, pink and red melting and merging, a cloud opening, peeling, ready for the day—the day lunges forward, the moon slips, the ducks stir, tap their beaks along the water’s surface—reflections sparkle, push up onto one another, wings flap, flap, move, eyes drop, blink—a bee in the air. The air is warm, sugary, blossoms, pine cones—summer on its way—Christmas is coming, ice-cream and prawns on the beach, hot and sticky, white bodies burning, brown bodies rubbing, suntan skidding, champers and beer, laughter, laughter, sounds rolling across the sand. The ducks move, snap their heads back and forwards, dip down into the water—bop up again—swallow something. Light fades, hides behind a tree. Ducks swim away.