Paths
Early afternoon stretches along the street.
Honeyeaters cling onto wires.
My footsteps are buried in the pavement
like a prayer that never surfaces.
The light within light contracts and travels.
Half-remembered cadences roll over a fence.
The hour seems to drape.
Trees invent shadow.
A jet’s underside pushes into the west.
Nearby there are birds that will soon fly north.
Concrete slowly flakes
as if it’s also going somewhere.
___________________________________________Jill Jones
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