This backpack—

Not the pillow we’d hoped it would be

The trees are muscular and quiet

The shade swings and stretches

You told me once

That it is always hiding from the sun

There is so much left to say

The park—it is

So small and popular

Ripple-bright pond

Busy swingset screeching

In its choppy pond of sand

That sound it makes reminds us

Of implacable seagulls

Jockeying on the water

For pieces of bread

—And there he goes

Stately brown duck

Oarless figurine

Sliding slowly

Toward a wall of reeds

Trailing

On the water

A wide bright V