Baez, Dylan, and I sat on a big light blue sheet
in Central Park on a Sunday afternoon. I had paid
for the carriage ride. Dylan played his harmonica.
Baez sang "Diamonds and Rust." I wrote a poem.
The sky was azure blue. Children with their
mothers played on the expanse of grass. Hundreds of
people were jogging. Others were riding their bikes.
Frisbees were flying through the air.  We had brought
a picnic lunch. Turkey and avocado sandwichs,
oranges and grapes, chips and wine. "Scratch my back,"
Dylan asked Baez.  I told the two about my growing
up in Topeka, Kansas. Baez had her legs crossed and
Dylan lay back and rested his head in her lap. We
talked about Simon and Garfunkel, how beautiful
their songs were, and what a shame it was that
they had stayed together only three years. A
Golden Retriever pulling its leash came up to
Dylan's face and licked it. Dylan reciprocated,
scratching the dog behind its ears. Peace is a
gentle thing, and the three of us shared it for
almost the whole afternoon.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks