Ghosts.

The shadows of the trees
creep and spill
across the stone steps.

The steps rise and climb
towards the clear sky.
A microcosm of
the looming skyscrapers above.

The steps fall and sink
into the cool water,
lapping against the stone,
grey on silver flecked with
gold from the setting sun.

The cogs of metropolis
whirr and click
in the veins above.

Boats slip by
like ghosts or dreams,
in the dark waters
below.

Mist.

Albany.