The Quagmire

I come here to feed the pigeons. I have names for my favorites. This one is Socrates, he is the boldest, and feeds from my hand very readily. And matching his wit is Xeno, with the gray head and dappled plumage. He pecks very heavily and has either terrible aim or a propensity to attack my fingers. Diogenes never comes close to me. Plato with the white tail, was the first pigeon that would eat from my hand. My palm extended open and being besieged by a bombardment of pecks awakened a feeling. When my fingers curved over my open palm, and grazed against the warmth of their feathered throats; at once I understood the item of life and its mortality.  

I come here to ponder and bear witness, how much change is hidden in one place. Somewhere in the rustling of the winds and the clamor of city life lies the memory of ancient muck and Indian reed. One time these banks were perfumed reeking of onion. Once it was bedecked with blushes of rose mallow. In the shallows the Indian banked his bark, speaking a world into existence. And from the big waters of the lake came the black robed friars to part these uncertain waters. 

And now these giants, these monumental edifices that rise effortlessly out of the tidy reversed river. They watch me from above. And they know I can’t even imagine the wealth of weight, and what force it takes to stay countering all entropy, un-sinking in the quagmire of this land.