Letting the grass grow under our feet

By 8 A.M. the grass is bathed with warm gold of sunlight, the silver of  morning dew gone. Feet walk less briskly in the sun’s warmth. The park has a rarefied air of just three souls by now,one in the northern corner,making nose noises,the second speaking into phone on the green bench.The third is the speaker with poetry in mind.

Three girls zip across the park,from gate to gate,like phantoms with a load of Sunday’s homework.

The bird in the trees above the park wall is a phantom. Its squeak is a short,squat ,mono-syllabic utter, a single shot  repeatedly let into the air with layers of sound underneath.


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