Grey Day

What to make of this cloud on the lake.

Or the banging of the woodpecker, heard but not seen in the earth cloud that blocks all but the slightest glimmer of a morning to come.

The eagle is sitting primly on his perch.

He sees it all, and considers me and dog as we trace our morning steps.

Does he wonder why we return each day? Are we friends, or just cohabitants of this empty beach?

What will become of us my hoary friend?

You captive of that tree, and me, doomed to cycle back and forth between home and work, and home again.

Meetings, dive bombing into the lake, bus rides, perched on the tree, more meetings, more dead fowl, or perhaps a fish.

Where is it all leading us?

Oh what a pair we are, dear sir.

Let us make a deal. I will take your perch, and you my staff meeting.

I will watch the circling ducks, dodge the diving crows, and skim the gentle ripples across the lake.

You go to the office and rip their flesh for me.

Just once, just a little peck.

Just enough to let them know, let us both know.

To let us all know that we are still alive.