The waterfront festivals are gone. Winter’s is throwing its cold elbows.
Arched eyebrows stand in clumps along the seawall.
Below on the river, a merganser strays into a drift of coots.
Office workers forage the food trucks downtown, warriors in cotton armor.
Peregrine falcons hunt pigeons from the frowning bridges.
Homeless statues with purple hands.
I stand by the empty fountain near the seawall.
This season of white snakes in the tallow sun.
I walk over to buy Indian food from a food truck, love from beyond the Ganges.
The pigeon at my feet finds a piece of pita bread. The falcon above
waits for it to take her treasure to a rooftop before it strikes.