poetry in motion

On  Monday I walked downtown to my yoga class. Across the street, at the fence overlooking the river, there was a man I did not know. He was standing, as folks often stand, looking out at the river. Nothing odd about this, except it was very cold that morning and the sun was hardly over the hill. I saw him and walked downtown.

Got to yoga and, behold, a closed door. The class had been cancelled due to the wintry mix last night.

I walked back home, up the hill, glad that I got a walk if not a yoga class. I looked to the other side of the street and saw the same man, standing in what seemed like the same place, looking out to the cold river.

First thought. A bit odd. The man not having moved on a cold day. Second thought. Keep walking home. Third thought. Wonder who he is and if he is okay. Bridge Street is not exactly a place for jumping off but something seemed, well, not okay.

I crossed the street and said hello and asked if he was okay; that I had seen him earlier in my walk downtown and there he was standing on my walk uptown. He told me that he was waiting for the Doctor’s office to open. He was okay.

All seemed well.  Sort of.

I said how sometimes at this spot you can see an eagle swooping down the river. We looked across the river together and he exclaimed “There is the eagle. Right there!”

The eagle flew by us, across the river and gracefully landed on a tree. We sighed in awe.

He said “Thank you for coming over and asking about me.”

I thanked him and the eagle and God for the sighting and that all was, is, well.

Sometimes I feel like I am living in a poem. Here is the river on a summer day. It is not always so sunny and blue and green and welcoming. river


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