On a lonely morn he crossed the Rubicon . . . . 

Smokey fog filtered from the lake bottom,
Eerily his forthcoming demise foretold by it
From his deathbed, slow shallow breaths
Became casually distant then nonexistent . . . .

From across the river he whispered to me.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I had a prmenition he had died when the phone rang . . . 

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