April’s Grace

Through the smoke of a cigarette, I look east. Positioning my eyes in a direction that catches the peaks. I stare just long enough for the green to grow in front of my eyes. I stare long way over the rolls of foothills and catch the gold simmering in a sky made of young fire, smoldering, burning what's left of the day. The west is on fire. April's grace melts the snow, forgiving Winter's pale advances.

The clock showed 11:11 on a day in Central Park, away from the City and its undercurrent. The sun shone bright against the blades of Sheep Meadow and the water on Cherry Hill. On a stretch in April's grace, the towering skyscrapers felt like protection, if only I could protect myself. Outside the gates, the City awaits. Ready for me, ready to eat me alive and spit out my bones like trash bags collecting on the street.

Blinded by Icelandic sun, the rays penetrate, cutting through me like the wind. That green bench on Tjörnin. The calmness of water unmoved. My hands calloused, my lungs charred and smoking still. Despite the cold, I'd seldom felt warmer. Chasing the sunset down Eiðsgrandi, I settled on the boulders and stared at the dying sun. I sat in the change of season; I stayed in April's grace.

Cover Art: Day One - Johnny V.