The park smells of dogs, horses and dirt. Flowers too, but faintly.
When she discovers a crack in a tree, she stuffs it with peanuts. Let no (peanut-eating) animal have to look too hard for its food.
He's hunched over on the bench with his pudding and apple sauce while she pokes fun at him. She's not that much younger than he is, and I wonder how much of her mean-spirited teasing stems from fear - that sooner than she knows it, soft food will be dribbling out of her mouth in public places.
The outdoor bookseller waves away the pigeons that clamber on his paperbacks.
Trees with whorls on their trunks like languid eyes.
When the wind skims the Reservoir, the water seems to flinch at the cold touch.
The birds melt into the evergreens. They would like to be heard but not seen.
The choices are narrow marble steps or a rickety elevator with a grill.
The walls of the room are bleached white. On a white plastic table there's a row of transparent plastic cups filled with tap water.
With his thin limbs and large belly, he looks like he's been starved. And he has, but not of food. Like a ghost, he hovers around the wreckage of his childhood.
The conversation is all about our intellectual understanding of the situation. It has little to do with why we can't change it. Knowing what needs to change is not enough.
As we meditate, the silence in the room deepens, disrupted only by the dog snoring in his cushioned corner.
The souvenir store is a jumble of chrome, neon and plastic. The t-shirts shiver and fall as children play hide-and-seek.
Branches jerk in the wind against a fading orange light.