A green headed duck sits in the water by the stone steps. He is floating by as his spouse pecks at the bubble foam that gathers at the water's edge. He is quacking at her as she floats by, complacent, ignoring him, her grayness to his bright flair a pragmatic counterpoint.
Two empty cup sit on the rocks, remnants of ice still leaving a chill around the rim. Two straws, expectant, point off to the horizon. In the empty spaces you can still hear the echo of two lovers.
And still the waves lap softly on the stone steps, gray and rounded, sleak and glazed with age.
Two empty cup sit on the rocks, remnants of ice still leaving a chill around the rim. Two straws, expectant, point off to the horizon. In the empty spaces you can still hear the echo of two lovers.
And still the waves lap softly on the stone steps, gray and rounded, sleak and glazed with age.
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