but aging is real. Like leaves descend
from the sycamore, how they turn a deep
umber, then crisp, curl, crunch
—when passersby step over them.

Take your own skin for example: how its
crevices become more pronounced,
how it begins to thin, bruise more easily
with age. Look deep

into the mallard’s eye: it’s somehow
reached an astonishing number; its color
not as vivid. Though the sun’s the same sun
on its feathers, the water
the same water on its beak.

What are days, really, but the same
earth going around the same sun;
and that very first moment, still the very
last.

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Ahrend Torrey (he/him) is the author of This Moment (Pinyon Publishing, 2024). His work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, The Greensboro Review, storySouth, The Westchester Review, and West Trade Review, among others. He lives in Chicago with his husband, Jonathan, their two rat terriers, Dichter and Dova, and Purl, their cat. Learn more about his poetry at https://ahrendtorreypoetry.wixsite.com/website