I am glad
I did not stoop to pick up
the perfectly formed crescent
of a dog’s toe nail—dark at the base,
pale at its point—lying in the middle
of the sidewalk in the pre-dawn dimness
of my morning stroll. You don’t know
where that nail has been I said.
Ten paces further up the road,
I came upon another discarded treasure;
same coloration, but this one smeared
into the revelation of its true nature:
not dog nail, but duck turd.
Aha! I said.
While up ahead, Mr. Mallard
and his wife waddled across
my neighbor’s lawn
like they owned the place,
doing their morning duty.
Stopping here and there
to bequeath their bounty,
unaware the confused
in their wake.