The Ferryman sits in his long, narrow canoe.
He sits with a long, narrow paddle in his hands.
The canoe sits still in the unmoving water while soft, sad fog drifts around.
The Ferryman sits there with a wide-brimmed straw hat upon his head.
The straw hat shields his eyes and the back of his head.
But the sun does not shine.
The Ferryman sits and waits for his passengers.
His passengers will come to him.
They will come only one at a time.
The Ferryman’s canoe is long, but it is narrow.
There is room aboard for only two.
The Ferryman and his passenger.
He waits for his passenger to arrive.
He looks to the shore.
He looks to the wooden-plank bridge that stretches over the water.
There are no handrails.
The wooden-plank bridge stretches only so far.
The wooden-plank bridge does not reach the Ferryman’s canoe.
His passenger will have to find their way to him.
Some passengers come willingly.
Some passengers come fearfully.
Some beg to go home.
Some beg to stay.
But the Ferryman sits in his long, narrow canoe.
And he waits, sitting there with his long, narrow paddle in his hands.
He knows that his passenger will come.
One at a time.
One by one.
The Ferryman will take them across the still, silent water.
He will take them beyond the fog and into what lies on the other side.