Here are the ducks beaking for a mate,
ink leaks from a pen, a robin settles
in the birch’s oxter, the loch’s there
long and letting something to sea.
We — my uncles Jim and Larry, my cousin Lindsay, and I — went to Scotland on the sort of family business that is not business at all but is, rather, an excuse for a vacation. We are Scottish by an unremarkable fraction, but because that branch of family history is well documented, because we have things like a plaid and a crest, our unremarkable fraction can feel an awful lot like half.
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