Daybreaking fragments

On this side of town where you would least expect it, many houses with no fences in between, open to each other like when the developments on the other side of town were first built. I am quiet, stealthy; I cruise by a house where the dog behind the chain link fence tries every morning to announce my coming. But this morning he is too late and barks after my passing in frustration, I can hear it in his voice.

At an intersection I stop to let a car pass. It is a school zone and the driver is creeping slowly closer. I could have made it across several times. Finally she gets to the intersection and stops to let me cross.

One street smells like an animal cage, maybe a rabbit. Then I turn a corner and there is a delicious sweet spring fragrance. Like jasmine or citrus.

There is a convenience store where the workmen gather in the morning. Their trade trucks crowding the small parking lot, they gather in boisterous groups, drinking coffee from paper cups. A garbage truck idles, parked across the street, while the driver starts his day with his friends.

I pass a house where a week ago a huge limb from the oak in the front yard broke off and fell across the street, blocking traffic. Now all the limbs are cut off and the trunk stands with multiple amputations. Limbs cut up into sections litter the yard and atop the pile of logs calmly sits a cat looking like it had always been there.


words: Steve Wing, Florida (sand shadow)
photo: Ngo Huu Phuc, Netherlands (Koks Studio)

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