we sit in sandpaper reeds
at water's edge preparing
for we know not what
the rough reeds smooth
our fingertips and cull out
other wasted plants    the breeze
hits our faces like low setting
on a box fan   and the river rolls
roils and pans across this quiet land
we sit here amongst a forest of reeds
present       attentive        focused
waiting

     

Copyright 2005 by James Downs