Sunday

A saxophone plays in Central Park, New York City.
A warm breeze blows like an armistice over boulders and across wild grass,
carrying birdsong – one among myriad languages that pop and fizz
around street vendors beneath their umbrellas.
A mustard and ketchup smile spreads over my face.
Everyone is themselves,
And I am me,
And there is so much life,
And it is all beautiful.