by Steve Klepetar

I keep no dreambook,
I’m awake most of the time.

In the fog of my vision,
ghosts wander through trees,

old men and women
passing along the river bank.

You would say they look
wan and sad if not for moonlight

on the water, or the green
and brown squadron of mallards

etching the river with their wakes.
Then you might see joy in their eyes,

a memory of leaves and mud, the odor of fall,
the solid tread of feet on the forgiving earth.

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