The Flânuer at Harris Hall

on a park bench

            I sit alone on a park bench, though, a long ways from a park. It is dusk. I sit awaiting the inevitable fall of night while time creeps by in a passing manner. Its deep current shifting effortlessly, unnoticed. My hair feels a breeze, though no shiver. Not the slightest droplets of cold rain can be sensed as deep, olive leaves sway casually with the soft winds, hanging limp from the mighty boughs.

            Eyes shift back and forth but take no memory. They dare not establish union for that would, in return, induce unwanted conversation. There are a few whose faces I do remember with certain clarity. We exchange parched words with a faulty ease, short dialogues of regular schedule.

            A calm can be felt. Completely aware of my surroundings, I am reminded of a fellow that had paid visit just a bit ago, a bee, in fact. He has come back to my company. I am quite accustomed to the common fear of insects; however in this instance I sit unmoved. The wildlife is familiar; a gathering of squirrels, rabbits, bees and bird.

            Here I sit alone, my surroundings lack populace. The trees ache of rains gone by. Their leaves gasp for breath as the autumn advances. It won’t be long before falling waters quench their thirst.

            At this point night has fallen and the crowd grows steadily. There are some people approaching from my peripheries.  Distracted, my ears settle on a distant hum. It has become apparent that there is no escaping such sounds of construction, even at such an hour. Attempting to locate the sound would be foolish, though it taunts me with want of discovery. There are other sounds: the whir of leaves rustling in the oak, the incessant click of a coasting bicycle. A dissonance of sound blends into a rather quaint melody.

            I now see faces of youth and splendor. A vast transition from dusk to dark conjures calming energy that hangs low overhead. The footpath to my right is subject to heavy traffic. Clusters of people stroll by, exchanging pleasantries and giggling over the previous day’s folly. For the first time since I had sat down on that park bench, I feel alone.

            They are dressed, ready to “take on” the night. With a glance, I notice my watch strike the hour. A new voice has joined the choir. A toll of bells, nine to be exact, is in accompaniment.

            The most peculiar boy acquires my attention. Helmet on top, a yellow polo and checked shorts to match. He removes the locking device from around the fence post and places it in the basket in the rear. A most peculiar crate he carries, for its contents consist of one transparent umbrella and a container of cleansing cloth. I take in the umbrella with a sense of awe. My mind questions his motives for a moment, for it is not due to shower.

            I look to the sky. A waning crescent casts light across a multitude of surrounding clouds. My neck arches as I seek to unearth the North Star. My attempts prove unsuccessful as it seeks to stay shrouded in shadow.

            The pedestrian flow remains steady. In the instance that I decide to rise, my friend joins me again. My retinas follow its seemingly agitated antenna as it clambers about the park bench. I turn back to the busy scene before me and with my subtle movement, my company departs for the last time, leaving me once again alone on a park bench.