The man that sits and whispers

      Sometimes, when the fog blows over the wharf of inland bay. A dark figure can be seen at the end of the pier. He sits with his legs dangling, his naked feet barely touching the surface, as if he were inviting fish to nibble at his skin. He sits with his left elbow to his right knee, and his palm placed firmly on his chin, while his finger seems to caress the side of his grotesque nose. His black hood causes some to think he is the reaper, coming to take their souls for the crimes of their sins, these people never stick around to really understand him. A few pedestrians may even take a few glances to see if they saw what they did, but quickly forget. However, sometimes a small, ignorant child who knows nothing of fear and has escaped the protection of their parents, will step a little closer. They don't come too close because the small corner of their mind that holds the same fear and instincts that their ancestors held for fire will take control and cause them to freeze. The rest spread whispers about what they saw. Some deny his existence, some may even blame little green men or the government. They discuss what his name is: big-foot, god, global-warming, and more unknown doubted things that many believe. But what they never discuss is why he sits there, and what he does there. Although I don't know, not ever asking, I believe from watching him for many hours that he thinks of us the same as we think of him. He looks out at the virgin earth the same way we speculate his dark looming figure, discussing in his inner of most thoughts what and who we are, yet his thoughts mostly make up his own world. We are eachothers strangest anomalies. Never knowing that he is the whisper of us, as we are the whispers of him. But I will never truly fathom this. One can only be whispered too.