unshaven benches
green willow trees rich with water
buttered picket fences
me and my sounds,
no one else around
buds might be sprouting
damp April ground pouting
no birds shouting
a mind realizes within and without
that plant over there reminds me of Italy
a place Byron wrote about
rocks congregating on candy cane hills
cracks lingering in the earth
then a loud sound somewhere
interrupts my solitude
I again climb aboard a bird
fly a bit further
wealthier for this
a steel gray sky with no blue
a modest sun peeps through the left horizon
how fantastic
so many shades of green
so many breaths breathing
no one around
when three others roam by
gazing and pointing
waiting for a song
as a billion blades of grass move
filling this square
clearing away any stagnant air
our eyes stumble and meet
hiding out like brothers in arms
so we sit for a time and stare
breathing with our one breath
silently
as strangers often do
1968
Bear Mountain, NY