Nothing Wasted

Quarry Brook flows past

me sitting on a bank

right into the Atlantic Ocean

as I rub the dogs belly.

 

Brook Trout and a muskrat swim by.

Spotted Sandpiper. Tail bobbing.

Rising falling breeze. Hush of green

leaves filtering noonday sun.

 

Nothing is wasted in this perfect movement.

I tell myself not to measure or write it.

Know it. Remember it. That’s all.

 

But of course, I’ve gone and written it down.

 

 

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