Old Cedar Bridge
The setting sun mutes the sky
in brushstrokes of lavender adorned
by wisps of fragile cloud.
We are but a small piece of this
crepuscular landscape, two figures
amid a living scene of life
playing out in its various forms.
I find comfort in watching my father
as he walks ahead of me, admiring
the effortless tandem flight of two
herons scanning the still lake waters
for an ideal landing spot.
The air is crisp, refreshing as it adjusts
to the sun's ever-changing position
in the sky. The rush of cars speeding
home on a nearby highway juxtaposes
the tranquility of this scene, where I am
almost an intruder.
My silence is my deference,
My presence my obeisance
to a higher order.
in brushstrokes of lavender adorned
by wisps of fragile cloud.
We are but a small piece of this
crepuscular landscape, two figures
amid a living scene of life
playing out in its various forms.
I find comfort in watching my father
as he walks ahead of me, admiring
the effortless tandem flight of two
herons scanning the still lake waters
for an ideal landing spot.
The air is crisp, refreshing as it adjusts
to the sun's ever-changing position
in the sky. The rush of cars speeding
home on a nearby highway juxtaposes
the tranquility of this scene, where I am
almost an intruder.
My silence is my deference,
My presence my obeisance
to a higher order.