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Dwelling on the Darkness

Monday morning, as he was driving her to work through the park, she saw them drinking from a shallow, temporary pond created by a recent rain, and exclaimed, “Look! A mallard duck and her ducklings!” When he responded that a cat would probably get the ducklings, she castigated him for always dwelling on the darkness, her spouse-poet, of the negative so capable it sometimes made her sick, the way, like a mad miner, he’d take his pick to an endless vein of anthracite for days on end seeking beauty in the blackness, turning even murder into milk for a litter of mewling kittens.