XXXI Days of Poetry (MMXII) - Day X
He waits for her by the river, down a stone's throw from
the spreading oak tree that hangs over the water's edge.
The branches of the tree would offer sweet shade from
the implacable brutality of the sun and some measure of
relief from the hissing hunger of the horseflies.
But he doesn't wait for her under the tree.
He waits for her by the river, subjecting himself to the
beat-down glare and the stinging air. He waits for her
by the river, at the spot she went in. At the spot she went
in the river, and floated away from him. Floated down river,
and the river only floats one way. But what else can he do?
He waits for her by the river, at that very spot. And he waits.
And he waits. And he waits. And the horseflies sting. And the
sun shows no pity. And he does not move. He does not move
from that spot. That spot where she went in. He waits for her
by the river and....well....you know the rest.
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