Pigeons are the silent witnesses of
urban sprawl and decay. This park is a
small patch of land in the middle of the
city. A green island surrounded by

brownstone ruins. Old men play chess with
their backs bent over the weathered wood
tables. If you listen carefully, their
voices can be heard as faint whispers when

carried on the wings of a late summer
breeze. The slow rythmatic swaying of
Willow branches gives way to stoic
stillness as the evening drapes its dark

satin cloak over the brick lined walkways
and the worn dirt paths. A silence seeps in.
Monuments of copper, stone and marble
rise above the weeds like an ancient

monolith atop a hill overlooking
an empty valley. Long forgotten names
are carved elegantly on rusted plaques
They’re dead soldiers of the Spanish

American War. Where will my name be
one hundred years from now? two hundred?
The place we occupy now will be
Inherited by the pigeons; the

naysayer of urban waste. They know
more than we, that nothing is ever
wasted, only consumed over and over
again. The cycle of life will continue

Right here in this park, in this time and
in the next. And in the memory of
that stranger watching, I’m some guy sitting
under the red maples, sweet gums and willow oaks

writing his thoughts down in a journal
But when she no longer remembers me
I too
will fade away.