The Scenic Route
An old friend came in from out of town.
We walked down the wind-licked esplanade.
I left the ice-free side of sidewalk to him.
“You’re a good walker,” he said.
Dogs passed, pulling their owners toward the park.
“This is the scenic route,” I explained.
Noon caught in the teeth of grey high trees.
Each in our own clip-on sunglasses,
We squinted at different tints of bright.
. . . . .
We walked down the wind-licked esplanade.
I left the ice-free side of sidewalk to him.
“You’re a good walker,” he said.
Dogs passed, pulling their owners toward the park.
“This is the scenic route,” I explained.
Noon caught in the teeth of grey high trees.
Each in our own clip-on sunglasses,
We squinted at different tints of bright.
. . . . .
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