Benched

The park is cold and the only sound is the rustle of trees and the distant rumble of cars from Great Western Road on the other side of the park.

I’ve taken pictures of the glass palace, and I’ve pressed my feet into the frosted blades of grass, slowly crunching them into a shape of my soles, leaving a temporary mark on the earth.

Walking to the benches beside the herb garden, I take pictures of the trees and bushes. Nearly every tree is empty of leaves yet some of the bushes stubbornly retain their foliage. Several bushes remain green throughout their life, and others age, wither, and die but resurrect themselves the following year. Some of the beautiful red plumage that was on display just weeks previously have turned into crispy brown shells of their former selves, showing to the world the decay and emptiness of existence.