we are that kind

of town-bred country folk 
that say, when asked, oh yes, we do keep stock,
then easily turn the subject to one side.

Some friend persists; she wants to know the worst. 
"If you," I tell her, "want to do this, under-
stand: sometimes you'll have to take the place

of God." Our ducks, good Khaki Campbells, come 
by mail in lots of twenty, every second
year. When small, they're all engaging, all 

underfoot, following our steps with small 
heartwarming cries. But half are drakes. In high
summer I don my serious face, and tie

with care my long blue apron on. I go
to the barn, butcher's block in hand, and like
the surgeon spread my choicest tools nearby. 

The axe is first, and as its blade rises,
I feel that panic rising in the eyes
hidden beneath my unrelenting hand.