Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Dusk

Velocity wave from the porch. Woman across the street. She’s walking in front of the college. Blonde bob. Yellow cardigan. Skinny jeans. Flats. Arms folded over her chest in the exact parochial manner taught in the 60s & 70s. Small black bag dangling over her left shoulder held by that skinny singular strap. The strap doesn’t cross her chest in that liberal arts education dissection. She’s contained. Over her head - and across the street from me - a murder of crows swirls above. They squawk and scream. She stops to watch. I glance at the street to locate the carcass. I suddenly get angry for no reason. I’m feeling angry and hurt and saddened. My hip aches from swinging the cast ahead of my stride all day. I clinch into fists. I hate this mood: childish and churlish and dark and dank. I look at the emptied sky and see an overcasted dusk.

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