Fate is read in the routes
of the snails that methodically
spell their own names in the park.

Leaves shrivel
and shiver off of white birch
trees.

Alongside an old church,
pigeons storm a sliver
of stale bread that once was communion,
and the sounds of taxis and Ubers buzz
by the parks as the partitioned
paths of bees.

Nervously, an academic
and the pipes of the chemistry department
share a smoke, while the pipes’
rusty stubble
snags the cool evening’s light.

The goldfinch
warbles choirlike
before it swoops in
to cull a butterfly stuck
in the mud and buying time . . .

Andrew Hanson is a writer and poet living in Miami, Fla., and has recently been accepted by Broadkill Review, Bookend Review, Ekphrastic Review, Beatnik Cowboy, Birmingham Arts, and others.