Central Park

sitting on the bench, under the shade of a beech
there's not a mechanical  sound to be heard,
 only the hum  of birds and the bees
they're feeding on bitter juniper..
which grows wild around the perimeter.
I don't hear  traffic..only a distant  rumble 
of feta cheese..a girl calls goats
across the hillside..she's calling them down
to lower lands for milk..the tinkling bells
sparkle in the sun sending shards of light..
I can see them from this point..next to
the coffee kiosk, over to the right
I can also see the mountain stream
where I washed my hair this morning..and bathed
my legs in forty degrees.. stony white houses
where people have slept on the roof..they are
calling out to each other a greeting..
and calling the goats in their dreams to come
down from the hills.
Men are playing games..they are playing
backgammon..I hear the click clack and the
roar of laughter..children skip and jump..
I don't see any technology..I see old fashioned
skipping ropes and bunting..children playing like
I did as a child..swaying in the breeze..
not whining for an icecream..nor for sweets..
I see only men..no women and I feel very alien
yet..I feel at home..it's comforting..
there is a plaque on the bench and it reads
Central Park..
presented to the people of Elbasan from 
the United States of America...
I eat their cheese and dip my bread in fresh olive oil
and think how wonderful life is..