We are happy hippos, mostly, and mostly because we have been given good words with which to say so.

Occasionally, we are angry ducks, but not very often. Sometimes, though, we are "NOT an angry duck! NOT an angry duck."

And sometimes we are normal nightingales, because that is what poetry is for: we unravel the fabric, take the thread, and combine it with our own yarns, as well as sundry twigs and leaves. We perch proud upon on our bright multi-colored nests, and we sing and we sing.

(Sometimes we unravel the pages as well as the words. Mama is not an angry duck when that happens! NOT an angry duck!)

Last night, it was hard to say. We might have been cuddling-up whales. But in the end it was decided that we were once again an assorted herd of hippos, happy in our huddle.