The ducklings who follow their mother

onto incoming traffic, understand

a certain kind of faith. I watch

from my car with my own children

strapped into their seats

as another mother leaps

out of her car to stop the sea

of vehicles that flows like a current.

Duck deaths are common. Some motorists

simply do not see them, others are distracted

and fail to slow down in time. And some veer

out of their way to hit their target.

I should get out of my minivan

and join the woman on the road.

I should scoop a fledgling

into my hands and promise to save

her. I should write the kind of poem

where everyone gets out of their car

and carries the birds to safety. I should

write the kind of poem where everyone flies.

But they are still bombing Odesa and my

car is still parked on the side of the road,

and I am unable to accelerate

or move at all, like an animal

who sees headlights and knows

God has arrived to meet them.