I'm sitting in a park
on a bench
in the breeze
beholding sun-spotted trees
feeling
hearing
canopy winds and small planes casting shadows.
My ipod, battery low,
still plays Aim and Em true and clear.
Soccer camps traipse by,
undergrads chew chips on nearby benches
and chat with friends.
I turn the wheel, the volume up.
Soon I'll hike the hill to
a box of a room
to Pope and Swift the afternoon away.
A boy navigates the hills and gullies of
the magnolia's roots,
inspecting bark and climbability.
These invite pensive reflection,
stir up staring,
invoke observation
behind dark glasses and feigned nonchalance.
The knocks of improving hammers waft
across the field of erratic butterfly flirtation
and bird chirps.
Arabic and Chinese accents consult
about the grounds
and an apartment.
Brown leaves fall at different speeds
to the green ground.
The wind roars up high,
even though these are not the mountains.
The battery died,
the board now hurts my butt,
and the clock indicates that Pope is ready for an audience.
A spider falls on my neck --
a green scout from a ferny tree --
and loses his life in the expedition.
