Tipping Point

The hills are flocked
like velvet. Birds drowse
in the shallows near the bridge
from which people toss candy
wrappers, crushed cans of soda.

A tiny floating house
made for the ducks by 
a professor at the college
one whimsical year is still
tethered to the wooden pile.
 
How unchanged the world looks 
in these kinds of circumstance. 
Though it's tipped, no one seems 
to register the shift. Acorns pinging 
onto the surface hardly break the silence.