The Fisherman

Rising before dawn,

as so many times before,

he walks to the banks

of the Magdalena River.

.

His age-worn boat bobs,

creaking against the current,

like his old bones,

in the cool of morning.

.

Soon, the Barranquilla sun

will climb onto its perch,

relentless in its intensity,

a hawk eyeing its prey.

.

Sweat beads already form

on his browned skin,

weathered like canvas,

lined like the strands of his nets.

.

The river can be cruel,

but it provides life;

the only life he’s known.

He does not question it.

.

One day he will make

his final cast on the waters,

but that's not his concern.

There is only today.