Central Park in the Fall

Urban squirrels fat with handouts
Lounge on limbs of light
Dappled green and yellow
Red creeps along skeletons of cambium
Woodpeckers call to mates and friends
And the feeders hang heavy with black sunflower seeds
Waiting for the winter that’s been delayed
Chickadees and juncos always arrive
Fashionably late

South Ferry

The lady on the brine we never visit
Her pale green gown rises like a strange tree on the Horizon
The sway of the boat lulls us across the narrow strait
Muddy dark and deep, urban waters
The violent orange of life jackets crouch
Beneath the hard wooden seat against my legs
As I stare out and you sit by, with an arm to ready upon my knee
The ship docks and calls for those to disembark
But we bide our time patiently and I climb down
To lean against your shoulder
As we make our roundtrip home, although we have never left