Take away cabs, limos and delivery trucks, take away secretaries, file cabinets, political strategies inside buildings that run-on words, and there are Sundays at the park between Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials in Washington DC. Oh God of human vibrations and charismatic dances! Thank you for this retinue of human nature in the natural light of an irresistible Seventh day morning… jogging, juggling, volleyball, basketball, freaky Frisbee, American soccer, and chess under the trees…global polyglot of languages incandescent as children’s eyes…girls running on zig-zagging long legs, chasing nothing but echoes in their mad pursuit of earth, air and light …while fathers chase crazy kites across unused baseball fields, teaching young sons to dream. In quiet places above body’s dalliance, lovers picnic on verdant green, in soft patois of Portugese, Afghani, Szechuan, Catalan and Farsi…primal sounds of an eternal not available to the imagination. On old sidewalks young minds rollerblade to boom boxes percussing with James Brown’s slide and glide, while ancient circles of young girls watch casually, carefully structuring distances between rollicking boys and lovers on the hill…Breughl’s panoply playing out its common themes where “Washington Bridge” crosses the Potomac…’Sunday morning epiphanies coming down’ on phrases that have no desire to be sentences in the study of books about