seventy-five years in one place

 
gathered here

I’m past obscuring that ruckus fact.

I might even think, how many places?

where have I been, a self-measurement.
 
 
a church bell rings.   but not here.

there, two birds in a bush.   maybe three.

I wait.   patiently.   but the cat makes no noise.

neither does it want my gaze.

is that water?   too far I think.   or maybe rain.

geese are not shy of being heard.   they make

mark a certain time of day.   then depart.

or the ferry whistle competing with the fog.

OK, that’s rain.   no doubt this time.

crickets get the last word.
 
 
 
 
 

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