The park is quiet today.
No chimes of laughter
or clanging of bats.
Only the crunch of acorns,
their dreams of grandeur
shattering underfoot.

The park is still today.
The swings hang empty,
and no tree stirs,
their fallen leaves
now a rumpled patchwork
of shades of brown.

The park is quiet today,
and still, except in this garden,
where the bronze dancers,
moving to a music
only they can hear,
lift their arms skyward
as if seeking to free themselves
from their metallic shells.