some tings
Walking down a hill, Holland, after dawn, to a train. Wind rocks the leaves, trees and the soft sunlight dance upon them. Air is liquid, the street a crystal oxygen river. Other folks are rare, the traffic sparse. Up ahead, the swinging back of an Asian boy, now grown to be aware and comfortable on his own.
Suddenly my feet falls are gently. The concrete is done and the bricks have begun. TAP CLAP say my shoes to the bricks. CLAP TAP say the bricks to my shoes.
The boy has paused in confounding interest. Turns round, eyes to the bricks, scattered with dozens of little copper pennies. Face searches for answers, finds none. Drops down to one knee and collects them. Such an innocent sound! Tiny cents scraping shady bricks when clean young hands pry them up in eager astonishment.
How weak the lights of men are burning
in the shadow of our sun's earthen night.
Suddenly my feet falls are gently. The concrete is done and the bricks have begun. TAP CLAP say my shoes to the bricks. CLAP TAP say the bricks to my shoes.
The boy has paused in confounding interest. Turns round, eyes to the bricks, scattered with dozens of little copper pennies. Face searches for answers, finds none. Drops down to one knee and collects them. Such an innocent sound! Tiny cents scraping shady bricks when clean young hands pry them up in eager astonishment.
How weak the lights of men are burning
in the shadow of our sun's earthen night.