The willow weeps, a perpetual fringe, watching the river rush past, never quite embraced by its current.

Like the last leaf clinging tight in December, browned edges whispering of a forgotten spring, while the others dance on the wind’s breath, long gone.

The solitary stone on the shore, worn smooth by the relentless tide, but forever separate, watching the waves crash, the sand shift, belonging only to the edge.

A silent observer. Always on the outside, looking in. The leftover echo in the crowded place.