On frosty ground, into the cold north wind – the archer walks.
The rising grade from the river tells – tells quietly… of legs that lack the spring of youth.
Rest, rest a moment now,
his breath sparkling in the cold evening air,
borne, borne away now on a quickening breeze.
As he now stands… he pauses, pondering all,
Its life spent, a single frozen leaf spins earthward, as light fades from the day.
East appearing, the ripening moon has chased the sun.
The last murmurs of the day lie gently in the west,
softer than a lover’s kiss.
A southward glance – the pasture drops,
the earth falls, falls away now,
back to the muddy flow.
Bound by inexorable laws –
the LaMoine gurgles slowly and quietly.
Land rising, rising again on the other side – beyond the river,
a patch of town, nestled in the night…
Spouses love and children play
as the lights of Ripley twinkle bright.