Chris A. Smith The Last Afternoon When the last afternoon arrives, we walk out to the dock, the sky flat and white, the breeze barely troubling the water. We settle onto the bench, sturdily rebuilt of treated wood after the last hurricane rolled through, and set about seeing what we can see. One dock over there’s an osprey, straddling a pole like some minor potentate, wings spread wide, chest puffed out, stark black and white in the dazzling light, keening for who knows what. He watches the bird and I wonder what he’s thinking, but there’s no point in asking. Finally he says, That’s a noisy one, then lapses back into silence. He’s in three-quarters profile, unshaven and sunspotted, lines around his mouth carved like dry riverbeds, inscrutable behind polarized lenses. Then three sparrows spiral by, chittering, jabbering, they spin and dive and chase. He turns to watch, mouth pursed, and I think he’s about to speak again, but no words come. Instead we sit in silence, the world in suspension, and I think: remember this, because it will not come again.
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