Not even the susurrus of a breeze
rustling through leaves—
all is still by the river.

I am late, the early birds,
the day’s first walkers
having moved on.

I usually take this path
with another, but on this
cloudy morning,

a spit of rain finally
falling from dry skies,
I go solo.

Alone, I relish the quiet,
the great river silently
making its way

gradually to the sea.
And then
the snicker of geese

brings me near the edge
to see them hovering
near the opposite shore.

And, as I get closer,
on a sandbar’s rise,
a heron stands sentinel

accompanied by
a trio of cormorants,
attendant mallards

swimming nearby.
A squawk, the flip
of a fish close to me,

a single trilling bird
and finally, the merest
breeze, lifting.

As if we are ever
truly alone.
As if there aren’t

other beating
hearts
always nearby.