A Visitor

On my walk to airport train under the weekend bag weight I rested in a crow filled park.

A black beak shadows the fresh cut of the green grass. Objects scattered, made of stone, concrete, marble, cast from alloys long gone.

"Craw... craw", beak lets out in still-tone; ignorant to the history below. Just craw-craw.

The breeze brought by the decayed mills fills feathers with chills and pushes the visitor away. The pungent atmosphere of the human past in stillness where rush used to be the definition of a day.