We walked at the park today.
We pass the playground,
circle the pond,
up the hill,
down the road to the school where the seventh-grade band plays.
Their march tune leaks through the door seams.
joggers tracing their routes,
fishermen casting for catch and release,
boisterous boys chasing mothers on short legs.
The train whistle we hear is the sound of commerce passing through
And the small-engine-putter we hear is the sound of regular maintenance—
an earnest woman rides a tractor to cut the grass.
She rounds the ball diamonds
and turns on a dime.
Sniff the tree trunks,
sniff the tall grass,
sniff the dirt clumps left by muddy tires.
We follow the creek and aim for the car.