Central Park Morning

Sun through spring trees
feels like home —
the smell of damp woods
and morning lingering
in granite crevices.
Even Hawk
who soars above
suggests
I am Alice returned
and resting beneath
familiar oak.
Then!
Sounds of sirens
and subterfuge,
the low rumble of
a mass awakening.
As Hawk ascends to
cement parapet,
I see I am somewhere
quite removed.

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Poem ©2016, Jen Payne, National Poetry Month, 17. Photos ©2016, Jen Payne

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