Dusk at Shoreline Park

There's something that's ephemeral and yet so very constant about the park in the evening. As I step into the park, I feel the air on my face - a bit heavy, weighed down by the day's doings and the bird cries. There are still a few families out, playing catch with the kids, I see that by the cars in the lot, but its hard to hear them through the birds. A few intrepid cyclists are still out, whirring and clicking their way through the thickening shadows, threading nimbly between the last-chance joggers of the day.

I can see that most of the birds are heading to roost, and there's a dark patch on the water, it's the ducks huddled together - keeping each other company through the night, I guess. A girl's voice calling out a boy's name, probably his sister, reminding him its time to go home. A bicycle left on its side, the front wheel clicking slowly. As I walk over a small hill, and round the corner to the edge of the lake I see a bunch of kids, talking in quiet voices. The sounds fade away as I step through a clump of trees, and past some bushes. There's sudden movement, a hare breaks out and runs for it. In the failing light, I can still see upright brown ears with black tips bobbing into the distance. I pause, watching it go - so purposeful, so driven by animal instinct.

There is a certain rightness about all this, it seems like the essence of life itself, simplified, purified and concentrated - it seems to me that as long as there is this park and the birds, the ducks, the hare and the kids, it's all going to be all right.