What is one to think as one sits on grassy Parliament Hill overlooking London? Buildings of once brick and steel now steeped in gray sunlight resting under a sky of cotton-ball clouds, blue for the first time this week. The man with his dog writes, a woman in a red cap pretends to read, tourist families photograph, couples lounge on blankets sharing lunch. The sun licks us all -tasting us, tanning us- as the grass sweetly buzzes the melody of excited cicadas. Who are we, this group of strangers, sharing an objective view of this city for just a moment? Are we lonesome pilgrims, each humming to our respective tunes of thanksgiving? For we are all thankful- we must be. Even if we chose to ignore it, it returns. It prods us through the sunshine. It swarms around us with the bees. It tickles our ears through the ostinato of the cicadas. Reminding us, always, enchanting us, you are here. You are here.
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