Part II:

Tempo changes:

It was a confusing sight at first, no fox, no Weasel,
A thin man shirtless, his jeans sagging revoltingly.
A beer in one hand.

Beside him a chubby girl holding a broom handle?
Unable to comprehend. No doubt his mate.

I saw the man kick the large while the white duck lay dying,
In the yard below me.
Confused I wondered, “Surely he found the duck wounded,
And is making short his suffering.

She said “Its still alive” its head on the cement path, body on the grass.
The man approached and stomped its head a dozen or more times.
The horror of such egregious violence shocked me into awareness
That it was a crime, not mercy.

A large tame duck, nearly a goose, no honor student, no child,

My mind thought of camera, none handy, and also of guns, then the phone
As the savage picked up the dead duck, its head shattered and mangled,
And the pair took off running and laughing before I could react on my high balcony.

Too late to shoot or film, I dialed: 411 (Bagua gets flustered)
Hearing the message I dialed again:
911 – and gave my report, precious seconds and I described their deeds
And guessed their likely escape route.

Then, against reason, chose to be citizen on patrol.
And set out into the darkness to stalk these savage freaks
I spotted the local PD, fast on scene, but typically,
On the wrong side of the river.