Frost turns to dew on the morning grass,

The sun is bright, the streets are busier.

A new season at hand---

I would--

Sit a while on that bench there--sit and listen,

To that man's story on the avenue where the wind blows strongest and the glances are fewer.

Sit a while and think that my cozy, warm bed could--easily be replaced by a few scraps of wood and some iron handles.

Pause--and witness, Pause--and witness.