Ed Krizek Writing

Dockside View

It is June.
A small boat
is coming into the harbor.
In the distance
I can hear the bell buoy ring
marking where the ocean ends
and the harbor begins.
Outside my rented cottage
I can hear a string quartet
play the Wedding March.
I expect the bride
is walking down the aisle.
I want to open my door
and gawk at the spectacle.
But I resist.
After ten or fifteen minutes
I hear the exit music.
The couple is now married.
Well wishers scatter rose petals.

Gray clouds block the sun.
A cold steady wind blows
in off the ocean.