Book of the Dead 2

The dead begin gathering immediately after midnight.
The bridge over the river carries a steady stream,
Mostly the old,
But rarely a small child,
Occasionally a wave at once,
Chattering excitedly.
The ferry is a pleasant myth.
They sort themselves by birthdate
Along the other shore,
Children in front,
Low, to see and be seen,
Parents,
Grandparents,
Great-grandparents,
Rarely the Centenarians,
High on the bank.
They wait there all day
While more arrive.
Some wave to someone or something
On the Living Bank,
But most on both shores can’t see much.
The sun sinks.
Color bleeds from the earth.
The dead fade translucent.