The Field

Soccer mums have gathered up their wayward offspring, one last yellow bus chugs its way through the parked cars. In the local park low clouds have planted patches of mist, gray moisty pools that have weaved a silver dew over its grassy acers. Soon geese will march slowly out of a tree line to peck and preen, then to waddle and paddle where no pond exists. I think if the city put a pond in this small park (in this ordinary field in an ordinary town.) ducks would come but the geese would leave. So might I, I like watching the morning sun rinse the land, while a warm breeze dries the field as if it were newly painted just once each morning.