They stand on the dirt path between ponds,
white feathers reflecting the pre-dawn light
contrasting with rusty dirt and cobalt water
as they remain still and silent, their backs to me.
As I approach, they begin to move away,
their steps light and simple as if a coincidence,
but their dark webbed feet match my pace
They stop when path concludes with a drop,
and they seem carefree until I stray too close
and they spread their inkblot wings to fly.
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