He Stands At the Railing

On a chilly, damp Thanksgiving Day, 
     he stands at the railing of the balcony
          looking down at the pond covered now 
with netting for the approaching winter,
     yellow, gold, red and brown birch leaves 
          galore layered heavily, pulling the net-
ting down into the water. He looks for 
     signs of the fifteen-year-old goldfish 
          and glances one entering the bubbles, 
lingering, feeling the soft movement of 
     the cold bubbles like bubbles in a hot tub                   
          and then it moves on.

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