Every one of us walking in the park sees it as my time.
And everyone is right, no matter how bitchy they become about it.
Time for the narc.
Time for the dog walker.
Time for the loony.
Time for the dancer.
Time for the know-it-all.
Time for the beauty.
Time for the shy.
Time for the seer.
Time for me to wonder who’s here and turn away.
Turn to look at the shoe marks on the path,
to the owl that swooped,
to the pine cones broken by squirrels,
to the shiny eyes of untrusting bunnies.
To nature outside of the unnatural cast of people.
