Photo Essay

Humming Way

Manhattan, NY: Central Park

Where were you when privacy was spelled "e.l.m." despite the ticking in the grass? Subsumed, maybe, with every intention of intervening between rings; lovely the notion we have no control over the direction roots wag, you mused. That said, I would have leveraged you out of the cataract, but you looked so sweet swept away by the current. And who am I to make a ripple this late into the chapter, and with so little fountain left to jimmy the rocks from their pockets? Unanswerable, though solemnly addressed in the third person, ash and hickory. Maples, sycamores: they have a distinct way of forecasting the skinny on every little pebble rolling downhill. But once there, better to hold a pond than drink gneiss in this neck of the woods, mark my word, mark my word.

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