Three hundred and sixty five days.
Twenty four hours a day.
She stands at the corner.
161st street.
The South Bronx.
Irrespective of the weather.
A busy and crowded block.
Holding her own.
Only the buildings are taller.

Naked.
Almost.
The rites of Autumn left her exposed.
Yet she keeps her head up.
Proud.
Majestic.
Regal.
A Queen unclothed.

They pass up, down and around her.
Vehicles, people, birds, animals.
Nobody stops.
Not even for a second.
No good mornings.
No how ya doin.
Not even a lousy hello.
Somehow though, as she gazes down on me.
Unperturbed.
I get the feeling that she's not lonely.

Cold.
Rough.
Smooth.
Unresponsive to my touch.
If only she could speak.
The stories.
She's seen and heard so much.
Suddenly we are alone.
The streets are empty.
Cloudy, grey sky.
It's just the two of us.
The tree and I.