A man sits in the park on sunny days
as through the trees the sun casts patterns of
light. The shapes of the trees appear on the ground
like a painting of black and yellow. But
nature holds no interest for the man.
He likes to watch the people as they pass.
Their faces and gaits makes him wonder; some
reflect the lightness of the trees while some
seem heavy like the shadows between the
leaves. He does not know their stories but he
likes to think he does. He attributes to them
lives doubtless grander than reality:
stories of broken laws and escapes, of
war wounds and estranged siblings. He thinks of
himself as a storyteller at least,
a biographer at best. But he is
no one but a bored man on a park bench.