The Spring like the sidewalk at lunch hour seems oddly at cross-purposes with itself 
despite the sun.
No one could have dreamed up the panoply of color and texture one wades through
and is a part of.
The glass scrapers maintain a fixed expression as though they’re staring at a miracle
others can’t see.
It’s easy to forget how far we are from winter’s sullen interval until a roguish cloud
bruises the light,
though this time the injury is superficial and in a matter of a shadowy minute or two
the wound heals.
Meanwhile, the cirrus changes its disguise and drifts across the river to New Jersey
and oblivion,
as if it knows that the light at this time of the year makes everything that is desirable
closer than it is.