Sometimes A Duck Is Just A Duck
(A Semi-Sonnet On Whether Strategy Guides Are Cheating)

Suppose you had a duck to deconstruct.
It sits atop a log, it quacks at things,
It flaps its wings all frantic, daring, dumb.
What parts of duck are really duck, you think?

Take feet. They’re webbed, for sure, and orange-black.
But geese and other cousins have them too.
That is not duckness, any more than spoon-
Billed beakness is a sign this duck is true.

It might reside in quacking; ducks take pride
In never shutting up. Perhaps parades
Of ducklings crossing streets like in old books?
A duck of culture, a consensus made,

Composites made of pieces sharp and blunt.
I must conclude that ducks are… elephants.

This is, of course, a riff on the poem I posted a while back called “Pondering a Duck.”