A hush fell over Erie’s tide,

Where silver mist and secrets hide.

Through curling fog, a shadow spread—

A duck, alone, with wings outstretched.

She touched the water, smooth as glass,

A quiet place to breathe at last.

The wind had torn, the sky had burned,

Yet here, she thought, the tides had turned.

But whispers slithered through the deep,

Soft ripples coiled and tugged her feet.

The lake, it sighed, You do not belong,

Its echo hummed a siren’s song.

Her feathers thinned, her beak grew weak,

Her wings, once strong, refused to speak.

The weight of water, cold and tight,

Turned flight to fear, day into night.

No bird was she—no sky, no air—

Just heavy bones and drowning there.

And as the lake pulled down her skin,

The fog closed in. The dark pulled in.

No feather left, no song, no name—

The water took her, all the same.