Me Like Driftwood

There are red-wings on the cattails, loons calling on the lake, reeds swaying with the breeze. I see the feathered wing and the seeds. I hear the haunting call, the echo, the plaintiff reminder. I feel the breeze, sometimes gently, sometimes fierce. There is a pain in my heart, memories I feel: those days, those impressed moments, the sinking stone, me like driftwood cast casually upon the shore of the world.