It’s Friday

The sun is the relentless light bulb that blinds

Leaves of Oak and Beech rain upon me as I walk, the odd Sugar Maple splashing red like blood

Crushing blades of still green grass, splitting acorns and snapping twigs

mingle with the labor of my breath and tattoo of my shoes

The drone of leaf blowers of the lazy homeowner mixes with the scratching scurry of squirrels

An engine sputters to life in the distance drowning out the barking dog and shrieking child

and fade to silence

A cross street formata

Darting glances take no chances, people die crossing streets

The rhythm changes when a jogger darts past with a curt nod hello

A whisper of wind through the Cherry trees and the startled flight of some sparrows

brings me no closer to home but leaves me lost as the trees that have lost their leaves

the pace picks up and a corner is turned and face flushed and body warm

I return to the house having enjoyed

Late Autumn street music, a symphony for one


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