Categories
Poetry

The Old Man

The Old Man

The old man paused on the bridge
a favorite stop
upstream of the lazy oxbow

where a boy once watched
the milky gold
of evening sunlight

spill through the alders
into empty space
over still water

its silent weight
filled the air

suspended dragonflies
patrolling the cattails

urgently

as if they knew
the lateness of the hour.

By markthegrey

I am a biologist, author, poet, professor, and parent. I nest in Aurora, IL with my spouse and about two to four kids.

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