A gentle hush upon the block where sirens used to climb, The precinct clocks a quiet spell, a summer free of crime. Footsteps walk an evening beat beneath the amber glow, Guarding corners once uneasy as the river breezes blow. Within the brick-walled classrooms where the morning pencils scrape, The screens are shuttered softly, letting younger minds take shape. No borrowed ghosts or thinking wire to spell the lessons out— Just chalk, and paper, hand to hand, to work the wonders out. A quiet vow in stone and bronze, a million dollars pledged, So children learn the fallen towers whose memory stays edged Deep in the bedrock of our days, untangled from the dust, To hold the names of who we lost in reverent, holy trust. At tarmac's edge, an engine roars then shudders to a stand, Where startled wings cross flight-path lines above the salt and sand. The metal slows, the brakes hold tight, the runway's breath returns, A gentle veer back toward the gate while caution softly burns. Far out beyond the harbor buoy, one hundred miles away, A speckled giant glides beneath the rollers and the spray— A spotted shadow from the deep, an ancient, gentle grace, Drifting past the island shelf, unseen to human pace.
