from his fishing boat

the canal is low
with no breath of rain.
the cicada’s murmur,
while the oaks weep silver moss,

whispering tales of
dark-eyed beauties,
pirates on a ten year old afternoon,
opossum births,
us.

you in your hat,
me with my pen-
we add to the song of the waters.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *