The horizon to the north is indistinct over the green poplars, brushed with the cool breeze beneath the gray-clear sky.
Turning west, in the wake of the dark, tired man, his back brace hanging loosely, his gate lolling, headlights rush eastward out of the hazy blue distance.
Below, in the river the reflections of just-built condominiums float glassily upon the inky murk.
Overhead, beating ancient wings at 500 feet, is the gray egret, heading south down the river.
To the south, from behind the giant oaks on the riverbank, the sun—already risen over the water, but not yet over the trees—streaks the smoky clouds that hang like ghost heads in the southern sky.
An urgency to beat the sun to his destination overtakes the viewer.
The tired man ahead is immensely tall and maintains his lead, despite his lazy stride.
Overhead, beating against the breeze out of the north at 60 feet, a sea hawk traces the ancient stream now underfoot, paved over in its concrete pipe.
Beneath the gazebo mallards mumble in their nasal way in the casement pond, ringed by white flowering shrubs, concealing the plastic filth that bobs against the bank.
As the osprey nears the last tree-line before coming in sight of the nest with its mate and young, crowning the ball field lights, he lets out his sharp call.
To the south squats the recently erected ape farm; to the immediate north spreads their ambling ground, where a broken-nosed male sleeps, defiling a green bench with its worn, fetal form.
Arriving among the apes, the world seems to sink as the sun, blinking through the riverbank trees behind, serves Time’s silent reminder to the apostate...that it overtakes.
Books by James LaFond
