My Aging Eyes

[laduck]

The annual tradition
The duck hunt on the La. marsh
The sun rises
Veiled through a heavy mist of autumn fog
I peer through the veil
Searching for prey
The ducks appear from nowhere, startled, we shoot thick air
Spread steel across the pond
My eyes play tricks on me. Is that a bird flying in the fog or a particle apparition within my cornea?
Streaking visages fly across my view backlit by the grey morning vapor.
Sun, the perennial victor ultimately vanquishes the fog
The soup of vapors gives way to golden rays set upon a blue crystal sky
My friend calls the shots. " Three grays at 10 o'clock." I look and see nothing
"Closer, closer...ready take'em." I rise above the blind grass and see three graceful ducks, close within range
We shoot and increase our bag by three.
As the cool breeze lulls me into reverie, I remember the hunts of my youth when I saw microscopic specks
Missles upon the horizon at great distance
I lament. My aging eyes limit the perception of my youthful vision
And yet the golden sunlight reveals beauty that my youthful eyes would have overlooked.

[crow]

From one aging educator to another:

Do not go gentle into that goodnight,
Rage, rage against the dyin of the light!
Dylan Thomas

Old teachers never die; they just lose their class!