sitting on a wooden bench outside Pickles Bar & Grill in Fulton

 


the skies are as clear,
crisp and blue as the
water's off of a small
Mediterranean island

lilies and dandelions
debate over who wears
the most radiant
yellow cloaks

the birds turn trees
into choir lofts
and sing:
something holy,
something holy,
something holy

and you can almost
feel the breath of
the sun on your
face