A dead cardinal is crushed crimson
as another step is taken
through the February air, bitter
like over-brewed tea.

The sand-grass kneels
before the conquering gusts
and that great rock jetty beacons
toward the grounded gulls
searching for a runway as
saltwater waves foam away
their breadcrumb path
of webbed pitchfork footprints.

And a headphoned man sits
on a boardwalk bench
listening to a clock chime
symphony, reliving the seconds
of his grandfather’s silent death.

There was a time when the fresh smell
of coffee waterfalled out that open apartment
window to the sidewalk below
and the swift-footed commuters
slowed for a moment to wonder
if the photos hanging on the walls
upstairs were black and white.