Patterson Park: Sunday Morning
The trees heaved deep silent breaths along the paths.
Steep. Gentle. Flat. Forked.
Our sneakered feet and cool noses led the way from bottom to top and back. Every which way.
Cobbled. Paved. Bricked. Concrete. Faded. Disjointed. Covered. Tread.
I can still feel the chill.
Our hands, warmed from our pockets, rest upon our ears now and then.
The more we move, the warmer we'll get.
He stopped with me. Started, again. Start and stop.
How many pictures do you guess I've taken? 40? 50?
At least that.
We'll find out once we're home...