Upon the glassy lake they glide,
With feathers soft, they sail with pride.
Beneath the sky so vast and clear,
They waddle close, then disappear.

In morning mist, they find their way,
Through reeds and rushes they will play.
A symphony of quacks they sing,
Heralding the joy they bring.

Feathered friends in green and brown,
With orange beaks, they never frown.
Beneath the weeping willow’s shade,
They rest in peace, no fear displayed.

As twilight falls, they form a line,
In perfect sync, a sight divine.
Through mirrored waters, they depart,
Leaving ripples, a work of art.