Cramming for Finals

Gray tiles formed of pressed gravel honeycomb the path of the park, dappled with irregular splotches of sunlight that leak through the elm canopy. Ferns, starting to wither with the warm weather, burst  in furry clumps from the crotches of the trunks. An old man's arm vanishes as he rummages for cans in a garbage bin. Where are the girls passing on their way to class? It's too chilly for skirts, but I'd settle for slacks. Instead there's just a pack of street kids, lolling like hyenas on the benches, a bald kid with pillows tucked under both arms, stomping on the sunspots, kicking through the gulls, one of which waddles hurriedly away from him across the young grass, across the gray tiles with a green apple speared on the end of its beak.