I like the people who come to Berger Park
– early –
to watch the sun rise from behind Lake Michigan.
Sometimes they stand along the rocks.
The benches face the water. Some sit on the benches
in their parkas.
They take pictures.
Some just watch.
There’s a man who throws a tennis ball and his dog runs
to seize it. Her back arches and dips to make the catch.
She’s a shepherd but jumps like a tiny terrier for that ball.
The dog doesn’t notice the sunrise. She doesn’t need to.
I watch, looking down
from my high condo window.
I see the sun rising every morning – red line growing milder, turning pastel.
Clouds offering infinite variations.
I like the pigeons who live in Berger Park.
They choose the east side of the community center roof
as their gathering spot.
I wonder if they watch the sky change.
They swoop in groups
with no apparent motive for swooping – other than the joy of it –
like the people on the benches on cold Chicago mornings.
Sometimes they dance.
Do these who dance ever consider that I am watching
from that high-rise next to the park?
I feel like a god when they dance
in front of the sun and I see them – unnoticed.