Loosed beyond the sprung cattail,
the sun downs on someone,
not by some malice called darkness.
A day simply withers its way
in its way to a downing set
loosed beyond those easterly creeks,
fat beyond the headwaters meek,
buoyant, strode over and giddy
as a waif skipping stone.
Yes, the sun is downing on someone,
just not here, not now, not yet,
for the drowning is far out to sea:
out there, among the currents and commerce,
out there, among the spray and bows cutting.
Image: Sarah Ottaberry on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 