Twenty minutes before the convention began,
I sat facing the sea and the warming sun.
A stranger named Dave, and his red-tipped walking stick,
Accompanied by his grandson, joined me.
He came every year:
But now, because his vision had dropped below two percent,
He could not travel alone.
White-water rafting had been both his vocation and advocation.
Dave spoke about leading rafting groups
On turbulent journeys down
The American River,
While being legally blind.
It was with great relief
That his rafting buddies
Accepted his reluctant admission:
He had led his last group this past summer.
No inflated ego corrupted his story,
He was just passing time before the delegates registered.
Perhaps not seeing me encouraged him
To steadfastly face me and smile as we spoke.
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