The Dispatcher
Foggy mists slither through the highlands
As downdrafts force them to the riverbanks
To the naked eye ethereal warm icicles
Among tow’ring long-needle pines piercing sky
From the other side near the rustic cabin
The yawning night watchman waits the 7:30
Preparing to hand off the latest dispatches in
A leather satchel, the hook catching its strap
The silent river valley comes alive screeching
Then wanes to deadly silence, the fog lifting
As he prepares to hand over to the day shift
Driving the winding road home, sleepy-eyed
written October 29, 2021
Copyright © L Milton Hankins | Year Posted 2021
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