“I think he’ll be to Rome as is the Osprey to the fish...." Shakespeare
And from above the timberline the pond lay open like a hand to offer all it had.
And patterns in the silt baked by the sun, became coarse rope knotted into a net, then draped along the shore line.
And returning to this place of the towering pine, whose reservoir of color had drained back into the earth, the air was different with promise.
And I, for once, no longer carried sorrow beneath my arched wing.
And the two, together, at the water’s edge hopeful like children, cast all they were into the trembling water-- needing to gather something into themselves, something other than what they had.
And I ask this: Were we there for the fish or something more?