the quiet waiting

a late winter walk home.

the sun setting low and soft

behind a cloud bank.

i can hear pigeon conversations

looking over the side of the bridge

i see that

the ducks

have written stories

with their feet -

messages

to be carried downriver

to their far away friends

as the ice breaks up

i thought about their stories

while

i was here

by

the near-still water

stories of

the quiet waiting.

the final tremors

of the sinking sun

reflected in their eyes.

the thin slivers

of evening air

sliding

between their feathers.

the deepening green

of the river

as the day's shadows

gather into night's

single dark film.

i thought of

their morning becoming.

the first fingers

of tangerine haze

gliding

across the skin of the day

their bodies married

as much to the river

as to

the dark reflections

falling from the shore

and in that watching

i felt

the flow of their knowing

of this world.