The flat river stretches out in front of me
And splits cleanly into a deep blue grey ridge,
The top of which is frayed and spiked with tree tops.
Across the reflective, jittery water
Houses dot the banks.
They are white, red,
All bearing a facade reminiscent of the founding of this town.
Massive swaths of earth
Are carved out of the hillside behind them,
It must be a quarry
But I can't be sure.

I drench my senses in this waterscape,
Remembering its past I never lived
And fearing its future that I will most likely
Have the displeasure of witnessing.

Silence breaks as the fisherman,
Whose bow eclipses the concrete embankment to my right,
Takes a call from his vessel.
He is instructing someone on how to assemble some structure
With screws and washers.

I return to my observations.
Blue and white clouds have dropped over
That distant, fractal topped ridge.
It's warm for March but cold for April.
I look up from my writing and suddenly
The blue ridge,
The blue clouds,
And the blue water all appear a shade darker
Than they were the last time I raised my eyes and listened.

He's hung up.
It's time to go.

On my way back,
I remember that it's easier to describe
What's tangible
Than that which is nebulous
And further clouded by an unattended to mind.
I begin to cry and forgive myself.