She remains by the riverbank,
notes from her bagpipes lapping
crosswise over to us as we pause
for the activity light to change.
She doesn't know we hear—
she is playing to the stream,
a melody for the water, the stream
of an obscure song to the rough
feigns past, for the fog
that was toward the beginning of today, cover
of past lives: anglers
furthermore, riverboat players, tugboat commanders
furthermore, log raftsmen, pioneer and local
sneaking past the whirlpools of time.
She plays for them all, both requiem
furthermore, surging psalm, for what has passed
furthermore, is going as we slip
into the streams of activity,
the changed light bearing us away.
Upvote hehe