The Tame Wilderness

Between the iron spikes of the perimeter fence, the moss clings to the north side of the benches, remembering a depth of shade it hasn’t felt since the concrete was poured over the roots.

The pigeons peck at the shadow of an oak, their wings beating a grey rhythm against the sky, a mimicry of the storm that used to break undisturbed across the rolling hills of green.

We walk the gravel paths in search of wildness, carrying the scent of rain in our wool coats, listening for the owl’s low, haunting call through the muffled roar of the distant highway.

It is a quiet negotiation with the earth, a small square of breathing room for the city, where the grass dreams of becoming a meadow and the water in the pond longs for the sea.