Nature blinded a baby duckling today. It clawed out its eyes so that the blood and vitreous humor streaked across its downy face—
The rest of its body—perfect. Its tiny wings—perfect.
Its soft, webbed feet—exquisite,
but for two inky rips where the eyes had been.
The duckling lay there paralyzed, unwilling to move. It made no sound nor gave no fight as I lifted it and watched its chest heave with pain, or fear, or effort.
The needle the Vet gave it was, I think, for mercy. There is no room in this world for a blind duck.
There is no room for a perfect little body with a ravaged face, or a little soul, which though in youth, is unwilling or too tired to move.