Queen's Square Park.

Leckie, Ross

Queen's Square Park A dog follows its eccentric path through the park, thoughtlessly: it has forgotten home. It patrols the imaginary fence line of its daily life. In one corner, a tractor pulls its mower back and forth across the grass; the clippings jump and settle, fluffed like a pillow. There is a sociability in the tennis courts, as if there were a tea service and the passing of scones, and the sparkle of water in the pool is all spoons and forks, silverware nestled in the green felt of its box. Suppose we really could live for the moment, our small pleasures laid out for us like the swing set, the teeter-totter, the merry-go-round. A small boy sits plucking dandelions--they grow around him in constellations. The dog has nestled into the shadow of a spruce tree. On the baseball diamond a batter waits, hoping to yank one into the left-field gap. We are in the middle of things, each of us in our moment's activity. We are at home, casually, a casual breathing of the luxurious air. The park is edged by streets where the cars are parked sporadically and beyond are the patient houses and our other lives.