Dressed in green and arriving by creek
instead of the path, I startle the dogs.
They circle me to protect a man
I assume is a drifter, the bearded one
who built a fire, slept on the beach
on Christmas Eve.
He calls them in, offers me coffee
from a stainless cup, looks to the bluff
and thanks me for the light-strung tree.
We talk a bit, throw sticks to the dogs
until taken by a rise of sea-bound gulls,
flashes of white on a winter front,
we lapse into silence
to let the season pass between us.
I climb home, look over my shoulder,
see only the great heron
closer to me than he’s ever been.
by Patricia Wallace Jones
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 10, 2018
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
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