ode to the palisades

a grand drive leads down to the picnic area

the cliffs loom like ancient walls

their dynamite-severed stones carefully placed along the path laid by our not-so-distant ancestors

picnic tables crumble

battered cliffs relax

overtaken by lush greenery

trees that grow sideways

vines and bushes that spill tenderly over their faces

it's quiet here now

we see ducks (really two ducks, four ducklings)

spiderwebs and baby lanternflies

a blue jay and other birds with dark wings and orange bellies

a groundhog, or, perhaps more likely, a nutria

and barely another human soul

we hear waves and birdsongs and the classical music radiating from the radio

tiny wild strawberries grow near the picnic table where we set up camp

they remind me of the ones that used to grow up the hill behind the brick wall in my childhood backyard

my brother and I liked to look at them

we stand here for this blip in the park's timeline

the alpine pavilion stands strong beside us

yellow loteae flourish in the absence of the park's former crowds

if only we could stay the night at mrs. kearney's tavern

warm up over a bowl of soup

and listen to the tales of fellow sailors

but it's time to go now

à tout a l'heure!