"Change is a'comin',"
says the old man,
leaning forward in his rocker
on his age-warped porch.

He looks to the sky,
listens to the modulation in bird song,
feels on his stubbled face
the shifting direction of the wind,
tastes, smells things out of my reach,
not even identifiable to him,
but known in his marrow,
embedded in his skin,
in his clouded eyes,
not something found in his brain,
but in his being. 

"Yup,
change is a'comin';
I feel it."

And he's right–
change is a'comin';
and he knows it–
hasn't analyzed it or reasoned it.

He simply knows.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.