To Walk

Walking on the High Line, peering at the masses of curved-over wild grasses, I see poking up between the strands: violet crocuses. I look out at the Hudson and see the broken teeth of old pier legs surrounded by the fillibration of water, its blue and mercurial talk ever centric and ever extended. Staying and leaving constantly. The sky is a step down from the madness of its sudden appearance last week. I draw a quick sketch of a bridge going from one building to another. I drink sunlight with my face and notice much less than I could.