It Being March in Loring Park

Cattails mashed
and embedded
in what’s left 

of the ice shield
over the pond. Ducks
float in the free 

flowing water, other birds
hop along those complex layers
of solid. I see 

that same old wooden wagon
unhitched beside the iron
footbridge. The gardener’s back. 

I’m circulating
the park, making decisions,
walking on.