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Second Scotland

On my morning walk, a man, with a broken in hat, a stretched out sweater and busted jeans played the bag pipes on the Lake Erie shore. The morning fog, the rolling hills, and the cold breeze made one believe that Cleveland was the second Scotland. He played to the water—slow and soft echoes—wake up dear, it said. It’s the morning, he implied, it’s now time to begin. I stared intently—wondering if Nessie too were in these very waters. And if she rose, there would be no surprise, only just the order of the day.

The Corner:
Common feat. The Last Poets

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