There is a triangular park across the street from my apartment window and in the summer, sometimes, the homeless sleep on the benches-all out in the open-and I watch them, and they watch me. Or sometimes it's just the skaters and their film crew. The occasional strolling mom and toddler pair, there to play in a patch of grass in broad daylight.
Its winter now, so the statue wears a shaggy white coat like pigeon droppings gotten out of hand. The boot prints pave the many ways already taken. Put them together to make a dance. My favorite tree is stark and frigid, naked in the winter cold, but deep below the earth she is preserving. We dream of spring together and we are making plans. I admire her practical use of time, but she has so much more of it. I wish her luck.
I watch the park from this vantage point and think we are all lucky to be alive. The cars go by. The day draws to a close and it's too cold to go out, so it sit here and contemplate the park instead.
Beats re-runs of Seinfeld, anyway.