Reverie

Mornings when I walk or bike to the little park near my house, I always see the man in the red pick-up truck. He parks near the water where he has a sweeping view of the marsh. His pick-up is old and beat-up; he's old too. He reads his paper and finishes his breakfast biscuit. He doesn't seem to have any place to be in a hurry. I notice him as I pass by the truck, and if he looks up, we nod in recognition. A snowy egret stands quietly by the green marsh grass, also in no hurry. I don't try for conversation with either of them. Their quietness is enough.