I see them there,
across the impermissive river,
with their gray beards
and rough clothing,
hands in their pockets,
standing in groups
where the ferry chugs in every day.

Wind ruffles the green
skirt of the reeds.
A heron lifts off,
trailing a skein of mosquitoes.

Old men! Why are you staring?
It's only the moon's
white thighs.