Cups for a duck

We live in the woods surrounded by trees as tall as a hundred, maybe a thousand boulders stacked one on top of the other. In the shelter of our small homes we keep warm, cook cozy meals, sit in front of this screen and peck at the keys to create words that sometimes warm or soothe more than oats or stew. In those shelters we assume a life of civility, a kind of border from the reality of the wild that is greater than the illusion.

Beyond the orchard Pete has built smaller shelters to keep the ducks and chickens safe at night. Above the shelters and over the stretch of the free ranging yard my son and I have strung lines of string hung with ribbon and flags to deter the eagles from our feathered company. But ...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duck,_Death_and_the_Tulip

This cup is for Sid the Grand, our fine drake duck 

... eaten by the wild, taken by Death last night.

The rain has stopped, first rain in weeks. The clouds fill the cups for Sid a duck. We add our tears.