They're gone.
Autumn's quiet cloak,
Upon the waters stilled.
No feathered friends,
No quack is heard.
No wake of v-shaped water seen.
Along the edge its branches stilled
The weeping willow waits,
To once again
Protect its feathered friends.
No tracing quiet circle
In the water seen,
As feathered heads dart to and fro.
The lonely log,
No feathered body perched thereon.
But wait:
It is just asleep,
Until the morrow brings the spring.