Walking through Central Park.
Young moms pushing baby carriages. bikers in helmets zooming down the road. people in suits, breathing deep the life outdoor.
The ice cream man rings bells, selling hotdogs and chocolate vanila cones side by side. Have both if you'd like. it won't hurt.
Bag pipe music streaming from the North. I search and he was found. gray hair, standing off the pathway under the bridge. something in the music sings nostalgia.
Children playing baseball in the field, the sun kissing the sand gold under their feet. Children swinging in the playground. their parents pushing, swinging higher and higher. and their laughter burst through the air like ripples.
It is so green here. The evening sun danced among the shadows around my feet. the leaves rustling, harmonizing with the birds. background strumming.
girls in sport clothing walking in a big group, their knees smeared with dirt but they really don't care.
I walk to the other side of the park, bag pipe music trailing after me. and i find a spot on a rock in the breeze. settle down, look, listen, write. taking my time.
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