Quiet

A lonely, quiet afternoon sees me
sitting on a bench, reading.
Every now and then, I'll peek
shyly at the bushes sprinkled
with red berries
and little pink flowers.

Silence seems to always
travel with the cold, I think,
as I wrap myself, for comfort,
in a heavy black jacket-
the rustling human
interrupting Quiet.

I look around, left-right,
up-down, the ground.
A little bird scurries out a bush
and chirps while picking at some seeds.
As long as I'm safe
from big, judging eyes.

Deeply I breathe,
huddling closer to this security of inner warmth
and outside greenery. I am hiding
in a bush, surrounded by hundreds of moving legs.
Quiet. Still.
The agony of my nature.