The wool jacket looks like his skin, worn in like it was of daily use. It was black, heavy like felt, heavy like the expression on his face. His shoes were leather, polished of course and his hat was sharp as if it had been ironed. Well fitted, well cared for, and if he did not own many things, and as if each thing fit perfectly in a box. 

As I exited the coffee shop, I began writing this. I noticed the way he looked up at me, the look was through me—as if I too was part of the book he was writing on millennials and their new dangled ways. 

I saw an old man there, but also a little boy; mixed with a little fear mixed with a bright mind like a tulip. His apartment, though dusted was probably carpeted in books with little articles taped to the walls that he felt were relevant. 

 He seemed like the kind of man that if he saw Blue Heron he wouldn’t really see a Blue Heron, he would see an essay or an Ode to the river. And I️ very much liked that.