Washington Square

A cigarette butt lies next to my foot, still emitting a trace of smoke. Nearby on the
dusty asphalt a pigeon waddles self-consciously, bobbing its head as if pecking the air
for some invisible food. A squirrel churrs a threat to his brother, challenging him to
romp.
The walkway before me never becomes silent. A buzz of voices blends with the city
soundscape of cars driving and trucks backing, swingsets squealing and sparrows
chirping. A toddler, holding tightly to his sisters stroller, yells Achtung! Achtung!
Achtung! at a squirrel that crosses two inches from his foot. His mother comforts
him, in German. A man sits down on the bench across from me, eyelids dropping on
his creased red face as he stirs his cup of coffee.
The bench I sit on is green, painted over years of dents and names scratched in wood.
My backpack sits to my left with its main zipper opened just wide enough for me to
extract my notebook and pen. At my right is my suitcase. Its pockets are crammed
full like the subway this morning, barely room left to breathe, creaking and
complaining of the overburdening load.
The subway. A couple of hours ago it brought me here, and soon, I will hike the
blocks back to the station, shoulder chafing from the suitcase, and it will bring me to
the train station. Im going home today.
At home, the mountain overshadows our farm in the same way that the thirty-story
apartment building a block north overshadows this park. They both recede as they
rise, shadowed places standing out against sunlit sides, seeming to hold themselves
back from too much involvement with their surroundings. This building stands
behind a wall of brick rowhouses like the low hill of alfalfa fields blocks a view of the
lower reaches of the mountain.
The rowhouses potentially beautiful faade is marred by rusty air-conditioner units
and a high trim of metalwork, corroded to a bright green, contrasting with the clean
brick and the white window frames. Trees obscure my vision slightly, holding onto
their last few dirty-brown leaves. A puff of air, cool enough to make you shiver but
too warm for a jacket, rustles them.

Strains of harmonica waft from the park bench opposite me. A street musician of
sorts has opened for business, a blue-green flowerpot at his feet. His nearly empty
bag is next to him on the bench, surrounded by his array of harmonicas. A contented
Labrador Retriever disinterestedly glances toward him, not missing of beat of his lazy
gait. Swing low, sweet chariot The man plays each line of music, then sings it.
Coming for to carry me home
Two benches to his left, a couple of students eat their lunch. One feeds pigeons that
strut in a semicircle around his feet. A sudden crash from a nearby construction site
sends every pigeon in the park into flight. Their wings create more noise than the
blast that scared them.
A lady sits down next to me, lighting up a cigarette. The noxious gray fumes begin to
flow from its burning tip. I think its time to leave.